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THE SHRIEKING PIT 


BYiREES & WATSON 


THE MYSTERY OF 
THE DOWNS 

“The plot is ingenious, curiosity is 
piqued, suspense is maintained, and 
the element of suprise is not lack- 
ing.” 

— New York Tribune 

THE HAMPSTEAD 
MYSTERY 

“One of the best examples of dealing 
with an exciting mystery in a con- 
sistent and reasonable fashion.” 

— The Outlook 



THE 

SHRIEKING PIT 

By ARTHUR I. REES 

J M 

CO-AUTHOR 

“THE MYSTERY OP THE DOWNS,” 

“THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY” 



NEW YORK: JOHN LANE COMPANY 
LONDON: JOHN LANE, The BODLEY HEAD 
TORONTO: S. B. GUNDY 

M CMXIX 


cl 




Copyright, igi8, 

By STREET & SMITH CORPORATION 


Copyright, 1919, 

By JOHN LANE COMPANY 


/ 




Press of 

J. J. Little & Ives Company 
New York, U.S.A. ^ 

APR 30 1919 ' V 

©Cl. A 5 I 5389 C/ 


MY SISTERS IN AUSTRALIA 

ANNIE AND FRANCES 


The sea beats in at Blakeney — 

Beats wild and waste at Blakeney; 

O'er ruined quay and cobbled street. 

O'er broken masts of fisher fleet. 

Which go no more to sea. 

The bitter pools at ebb-tide lie. 

In barren sands at Blakeney; 

Green, grey and green the marshes creep , 

To where the grey north waters leap 
By dead and silent Blakeney. 

And Time is dead at Blakeney — 

In old, forgotten Blakeney; 

What care they for Time's Scythe or Glass, 
Who do not feel the hours pass. 

Who sleep in sea-worn Blakeney? 

By the old grey church in Blakeney, 

By quenched turret light in Blakeney, 

They slumber deep, they do not know. 

If Life's told tale is Death and Woe; 
Through all eternity. 

But Love still lives at Blakeney, 

* Tis graven deep at Blakeney; 

Of Love which seeks beyond the grave. 

Of Love’s sad faith which fain would save — 
The headstones tell the story. 

Grave-grasses grow at Blakeney 
Sea pansies, sedge, and rosemary; 

Frail fronds thrust forth in dim dank air, 

A message from those lying there: 

Wan leaves of memory. 

I send you this from Blakeney — 

From distant, dreaming Blakeney; 

Love and Remembrance: These are sure; 
Though Death is strong they shall endure. 
Till all things cease to be. 



PREFACE 


As the scenes of this story are laid in a part of Nor- 
folk which will be readily identified by many Norfolk 
people, it is perhaps well to state that all the personages 
are fictitious, and that the Norfolk police officials who 
appear in the book have no existence outside these pages. 
They and the other characters are drawn entirely from 
imagination. 

To East Anglian readers I offer my apologies for any 
faults there may be in reproducing the Norfolk dialect. 
My excuse is the fascination the language produced on 
myself, and that it is as essential to the scene of the 
story as the marshes and the sea. Though I have found 
it impossible to transliterate the pronunciation into the 
ordinary English alphabet, I hope I have been able to con- 
vey enough of the characteristic speech of the native to 
enable those familiar with it to put it for themselves 
into the accents of their own people. To those who are 
not familiar with the dialect, I can only say, “Go and 
study this relic of old English in that remote part of 
the country where the story is laid, where the ghosts of 
a ruined past mingle with the primitive survivors of 
to-day, who walk very near the unseen.” 

A. J. R. 

London 


7 





THE SHRIEKING PIT 










THE SHRIEKING PIT 


CHAPTER I 

Colwyn had never seen anything quite so eccentric in 
a public room as the behaviour of the young man break- 
fasting alone at the alcove table in the bay embrasure, 
and he became so absorbed in watching him that he per- 
mitted his own meal to grow cold, impatiently waving 
away the waiter who sought with obtrusive obsequious- 
ness to recall his wandering attention by thrusting the 
menu card before him. 

To outward seeming the occupant of the alcove table 
was a good-looking young man, whose clear blue eyes, 
tanned skin and well-knit frame indicated the truly 
national product of common sense, cold water, and out- 
of-door pursuits ; of a wholesomely English if not mark- 
edly intellectual type, pleasant to look at, and unmis- 
takably of good birth and breeding. When a young man 
of this description, your fellow guest at a fashionable 
seaside hotel, who had been in the habit of giving you 
a courteous nod on his morning journey across the archi- 
pelago of snowy-topped tables under the convoy of the 
head waiter to his own table, comes in to breakfast with 
shaking hands, flushed face, and passes your table with 
unseeing eyes, you would probably conclude that he was 
under the influence of liquor, and in your English way 
you would severely blame him, not so much for the moral 
turpitude involved in his excess as for the bad taste 
which prompted him to show himself in public in such a 


ii 


12 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


condition. If, on reaching his place, the young man’s 
conduct took the additional extravagant form of picking 
up a table-knife and sticking it into the table in front 
of him, you would probably enlarge your previous con- 
clusion by admitting the hypotheses of drugs or de- 
mentia to account for such remarkable behaviour. 

All these things were done by the young man at the 
alcove table in the breakfast room of the Grand Hotel, 
Durrington, on an October morning in the year 1916; 
but Colwyn, who was only half an Englishman, and, 
moreover, had an original mind, did not attribute them 
to drink, morphia, or madness. Colwyn flattered himself 
that he knew the outward signs of these diseases too well 
to be deceived into thinking that the splendid specimen 
of young physical manhood at the far table was the vic- 
tim of any of them. His own impression was that 
it was a case of shell-shock. It was true that, apart from 
the doubtful evidence of a bronzed skin and upright 
frame, there was nothing about him to suggest that he 
had been a soldier : no service lapel or regimental badge 
in his grey Norfolk jacket. But an Englishman of his 
class would be hardly likely to wear either once he had 
left the Army. It was almost certain that he must have 
seen service in the war, and by no means improbable that 
he had been bowled over by shell-shock, like many thou- 
sands more of equally splendid specimens of young man- 
hood. Any other conclusion to account for the strange 
condition of a young man like him seemed unworthy and 
repellent. 

“It must be shell-shock, and a very bad case — probably 
supposed to be cured, and sent up here to recuperate,” 
thought Colwyn. “I’ll keep an eye on him.” 

As Colwyn resumed his breakfast it occurred to him 
that some of the other guests might have been alarmed 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


13 

by the young man’s behaviour, and he cast his eyes round 
the room to see if anybody had noticed anything. 

There were about thirty guests in the big breakfast 
apartment, which had been built to accommodate five 
times the number — a charming, luxuriously furnished 
place, with massive white pillars supporting a frescoed 
ceiling, and lighted by numerous bay windows opening 
on to the North Sea, which was sparkling brightly in a 
brilliant October sunshine. The thirty people comprised 
the whole of the hotel visitors, for in the year 1916 
holiday seekers preferred some safer resort than a part 
of the Norfolk coast which lay in the track of enemy 
airships seeking a way to London. 

Two nights before a Zeppelin had dropped a couple 
of bombs on the Durrington front, and the majority of 
hotel visitors had departed by the next morning’s train, 
disregarding the proprietor’s assurance that the affair 
was a pure accident, a German oversight which was not 
likely to happen again. Off the nervous ones went, and 
left the big hotel, the long curved seafront, the miles of 
yellow sand, the high green headlands, the best golf-links 
in the East of England, and all the other attractions men- 
tioned in the hotel advertisements, to a handful of people, 
who were too nerve-proof, lazy, fatalistic, or indifferent 
to bother about Zeppelins. 

These thirty guests, scattered far and wide over the 
spacious isolation of the breakfast-room, in twos and 
threes, and little groups, seemed, with one exception, too 
engrossed in the solemn British rite of beginning the day 
well with a good breakfast to bother their heads about 
the antics of the young man at the alcove table. They 
were, for the most part, characteristic war-time holiday- 
makers : the men, obviously above military age, in Nor- 
folk tweeds or golf suits; two young officers at a table 


14 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


by the window, and — as indifference to Zeppelins is not 
confined to the sterner sex — a sprinkling of ladies, plump 
and matronly, or of the masculine walking type, with two 
charmingly pretty girls and a gay young war widow to 
leaven the mass. 

The exception was a tall and portly gentleman with a 
slightly bald head, glossy brown beard, gold-rimmed 
eye-glasses perilously balanced on a prominent nose, and 
an important manner. He was breakfasting alone at a 
table not far from Colwyn’s, and Colwyn noticed that he 
kept glancing at the alcove table where the young man 
sat. As Colwyn looked in his direction their eyes met, 
and the portly gentleman nodded portentously in the 
direction of the alcove table, as an indication that he 
also had been watching the curious behaviour of the 
occupant. A moment afterwards he got up and walked 
across to the pillar against which Colwyn’s table was 
placed. 

“Will you permit me to take a seat at your table?” he 
remarked urbanely. “I am afraid we are going to have 
trouble over there directly,” he added, sinking his voice 
as he nodded in the direction of the distant alcove table. 
“We may have to act promptly. Nobody else seems to 
have noticed anything. We can watch him from behind 
this pillar without his seeing us.” 

Colwyn nodded in return with a quick comprehension 
of all the other’s speech implied, and pushed a chair 
towards his visitor, who sat down and resumed his watch 
of the young man at the alcove table. Colwyn bestowed 
a swift glance on his companion which took in every- 
thing. The tall man in glasses looked too human for a 
lawyer, too intelligent for a schoolmaster, and too well- 
dressed for an ordinary medical man. Colwyn, versed 
in judging men swiftly from externals, noting the urbane, 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


15 


somewhat pompous face, the authoritative, professional 
pose, the well-shaped, plump white hands, and the general 
air of well-being and prosperity which exuded from the 
whole man, placed him as a successful practitioner in the 
more lucrative path of medicine — probably a fashionable 
Harley Street specialist. 

Colwyn returned to his scrutiny of the young man at 
the alcove table, and he and his companion studied him 
intently for some time in silence. But the young man, 
for the moment, was comparatively quiet, gazing moodily 
through the open window over the waters of the North 
Sea, an untasted sole in front of him, and an impassive 
waiter pouring out his coffee as though the spectacle of a 
young man sticking a knife into the table-cloth was a 
commonplace occurrence at the Grand Hotel, and all 
in the day’s doings. When the waiter had finished pour- 
ing out the coffee and noiselessly departed, the young 
man tasted it with an indifferent air, pushed it from him, 
and resumed his former occupation of staring out of the 
window. 

“He seems quiet enough now/’ observed Colwyn, turn- 
ing to his companion. “What do you think is the matter 
with him-— shell-shock ?” 

“I would not care to hazard a definite opinion on so 
cursory an observation,” returned the other, in a dry, 
reticent, ultra-professional manner. “But I will go so 
far as to say that I do not think it is a case of shell- 
shock. If it is what I suspect, that first attack was the 
precursor of another, possibly a worse attack. Ha ! it is 
commencing. Look at his thumb — that is the danger 
signal !” 

Colwyn looked across the room again. The young 
man was still sitting in the same posture, with his gaze 
bent on the open sea. His left hand was extended rigidly 


16 THE SHRIEKING PIT 

on the table in front of him, with the thumb, extended 
at right angles, oscillating rapidly in a peculiar manner. 

“This attack may pass away like the other, but if he 
looks round at anybody, and makes the slightest move, 
we must secure him immediately,” said Colwyn’s com- 
panion, speaking in a whisper. 

He had barely finished speaking when the young man 
turned his head from the open window and fixed his 
blue eyes vacantly on the table nearest him, where an 
elderly clergyman, a golfing friend, and their wives, were 
breakfasting together. With a swift movement the young 
man got up, and started to walk towards this table. 

Colwyn, who was watching every movement of the 
young man closely, could not determine, then or after- 
wards, whether he meditated an attack on the occupants 
of the next table, or merely intended to leave the break- 
fast room. The clergyman’s table was directly in front of 
the alcove and in a line with the pair of swinging glass 
doors which were the only exit from the breakfast- room. 
But Colwyn’s companion did not wait for the matter 
to be put to the test. At the first movement of the young 
man he sprang to his feet and, without waiting to see 
whether Colwyn was following him, raced across the 
room and caught the young man by the arm while he 
was yet some feet away from the clergyman’s table. The 
young man struggled desperately in his grasp for some 
moments, then suddenly collapsed and fell inert in the 
other’s arms. Colwyn walked over to the spot in time 
to see his portly companion lay the young man down on 
the carpet and bend over to loosen his collar. 

The young man lay apparently unconscious on the 
floor, breathing stertorously, with convulsed features and 
closed eyes. After the lapse of some minutes he opened 
his eyes, glanced listlessly at the circle of frightened 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


n 


people who had gathered around him, and feebly en- 
deavoured to sit up. Colwyn’s companion, who was 
bending over him feeling his heart, helped him to a sitting 
posture, and then, glancing at the faces crowded around, 
exclaimed in a sharp voice: 

“He wants air. Please move back there a little.” 
“Certainly, Sir Henry.” It was a stout man in a check 
golfing suit who spoke. “But the ladies are very anxious 
to know if it is anything serious.” 

“No, no. He will be quite all right directly. Just fall 
back, and give him more air. Here, you”! — this to one 
of the gaping waiters — “just slip across to the office 
and find out the number of this gentleman’s room.” 

The waiter hurried away and speedily returned with 
the proprietor of the hotel, a little man in check trousers 
and a frock coat, with a bald head and an anxious, yet re- 
signed eye which was obviously prepared for the worst. 
His demeanour was that of a man who, already over- 
loaded by misfortune, was bracing his sinews to bear the 
last straw. As he approached the group near the alcove 
table he smoothed his harassed features into an expres- 
sion of solicitude, and, addressing himself to the man 
who was supporting the young man on the floor, said, in 
a voice intended to be sympathetic, 

“I thought I had better come myself. Sir Henry. I 
could not understand from Antoine what you wanted or 
what had happened. Antoine said something about some- 
body dying in the breakfast-room ” 

“Nothing of the sort!” snapped the gentleman ad- 
dressed as Sir Henry, shifting his posture a little so as 
to enable the young man to lean against his shoulder. 
“Haven’t you eyes in your head, Willsden ? Cannot you 
see for yourself that this gentleman has merely had a 
fainting fit?” 


*8 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


"I’m delighted to hear it, Sir Henry/’ replied the hotel 
proprietor. But his face expressed no visible gratifica- 
tion. To a man who had had his hotel emptied by a 
Zeppelin raid the difference between a single guest 
fainting instead of dying was merely infinitesimal. 

“Who is this gentleman, and what’s the number of his 
room?” continued Sir Henry. “He will be better lying 
quietly on his bed.” 

“His name is Ronald, and his room is No. 32 — on the 
first floor, Sir Henry.” 

“Very good. I’ll take him up there at once.” 

“Shall I help you, Sir Henry? Perhaps he could be 
carried up. One of the waiters could take his feet, or 
perhaps it would be better to have two.” 

“There’s not the slightest necessity. He’ll be able to 
walk in a minute — with a little assistance. Ah, that’s 
better!” The abrupt manner in which Sir Henry ad- 
dressed the hotel proprietor insensibly softened itself into 
the best bedside manner when he spoke to the patient on 
the carpet, who, from a sitting posture, was now en- 
deavouring to struggle to his feet. “You think you can 
get up, eh? Well, it won’t do you any harm. That’s 
the way!” Sir Henry assisted the young man to rise, 
and supported him with his arm. “Now, the next thing 
is to get him to his room. No, no, not you, Willsden — 
you’re too small. Where’s that gentleman I was sitting 
with a few minutes ago ? Ah, thank you” — as Colwyn 
stepped forward and took the other arm — “now, let us 
take him gently upstairs.” 

The young man allowed himself to be led away with- 
out resistance. He walked, or rather stumbled, along 
between his guides like a man in a dream. Colwyn no- 
ticed that his eyes were half-closed, and that his head 
sagged slightly from side to side as he was led along 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


19 


A waiter held open the glass doors which led into the 
lounge, and a palpitating chambermaid, hastily summoned 
from the upper regions, tripped ahead up the broad car- 
peted stairs and along the passage to show the way to the 
young man’s bedroom. 


CHAPTER II 


Sir Henry dismissed the chambermaid at the door, 
and Colwyn and he lifted the young man on to the bed. 
He lay like a man in a stupor, breathing heavily, his 
face flushed, his eyes nearly closed. Sir Henry drew up 
the blind, and by the additional light examined him thor- 
oughly, listening closely to the action of his heart, and 
examining the pupils of his eyes by rolling back the upper 
lid with some small instrument he took from his pocket. 

“He’ll do now,” he said, after loosening the patient’s 
clothes for his greater comfort. “He’ll come to in about 
five minutes, and may be all right again shortly after- 
wards. But there are certain peculiar features about this 
case which are new in my experience, and rather alarm 
me. Certainly the young man ought not to be left to 
himself. His friends should be sent for. Do you know 
anything about him? Is he staying at the hotel alone? 
I only arrived here last night.” 

“I believe he is staying at the hotel alone. He has 
been here for a fortnight or more, and I have never seen 
him speak to anybody, though I have exchanged nods 
with him every morning. His principal recreation seems 
to be in taking long solitary walks along the coast. He 
has been in the habit of going out every day, and not re- 
turning until dinner is half over. Perhaps the hotel pro- 
prietor knows who his friends are.” 

“Would you be so kind as to step downstairs and in- 
quire ? I do not wish to leave him, but his friends should 
be telegraphed to at once and asked to come and take 
charge of him.” 


20 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


21 


“Certainly. And I’ll send the telegram while I am 
down there.” 

But Colwyn returned in a few moments to say that the 
hotel proprietor knew nothing of his guest. He had 
never stayed in the house before, and he had booked his 
room by a trunk call from London. On arrival he had 
filled in the registration paper in the name of James 
Ronald, but had left blank the spaces for his private and 
business addresses. He looked such a gentleman that the 
proprietor had not ventured to draw his attention to the 
omissions. 

“Another instance of how hotels neglect to comply 
with the requirements of the Defence of the Realm Act !” 
exclaimed Sir Henry. “Really, it is very awkward. I 
hardly know, in the circumstances, how to act. Speak- 
ing as a medical man, I say that he should not be left 
alone, but if he orders us out of his room when he re- 
covers his senses what are we to do? Can you suggest 
anything?” He shot a keen glance at his companion. 

“I should be in a better position to answer you if I 
knew what you consider him to be really suffering from. 
I was under the impression it was a bad case of shell- 
shock, but your remarks suggest that it is something 
worse. May I ask, as you are a medical man, what you 
consider the nature of his illness ?” 

Sir Henry bestowed another searching glance on the 
speaker. He noted, for the first time, the keen alertness 
and intellectuality of the other’s face. It was a fine 
strong face, with a pair of luminous grey eyes, a likeable 
long nose, and clean-shaven, humorous mouth — a man 
to trust and depend upon. 

“I hardly know what to do,” said Sir Henry, after a 
lengthy pause, which he had evidently devoted to con- 
sidering the wisdom of acceding to his companion’s re- 


22 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


quest. “This gentleman has not consulted me profession- 
ally, and I hardly feel justified in confiding my hurried 
and imperfect diagnosis of his case, without his knowl- 
edge, to a perfect stranger. On the other hand, there are 
reasons why somebody should know, if we are to help 
him in his weak state. Perhaps, sir, if you told me your 
name ” 

“Certainly: my name is Colwyn — David Colwyn.” 

“You are the famous American detective of that 
name ?” 

“You are good enough to say so.” 

“Why not? Who has not heard of you, and your 
skill in the unravelling of crime ? There are many people 
on both sides of the Atlantic who regard you as a public 
benefactor. But I am surprised. You do not at all 
resemble my idea of Colwyn.” 

“Why not?” 

“You do not talk like an American, for one thing.” 

“You forget I have been over here long enough to 
learn the language. Besides, I am half English.” 

Sir Henry laughed good-humouredly. 

“That’s a fair answer, Mr. Colwyn. Of course, your 
being Colwyn alters the question. I have no hesitation 
in confiding in you. I am Sir Henry Durwood — no doubt 
you have heard of me. Naturally, I have to be careful.” 

Colwyn looked at his companion with renewed interest. 
Who had not heard of Sir Henry Durwood, the nerve 
specialist whose cures had made his name a household 
word amongst the most exclusive women in England, 
and, incidentally, won him a knighthood? There were 
professional detractors who declared that Sir Henry had 
climbed into the heaven of Harley Street and fat fees by 
the ladder of social influence which a wealthy, well-born 
wife had provided, with no qualifications of his own ex- 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


23 


cept “the best bedside manner in England” and a thorough 
knowledge of the weaknesses of the feminine tempera- 
ment. But his admirers — and they were legion — declared 
that Sir Henry Durwood was the only man in London 
who really understood how to treat the complex nervous 
system of the present generation. These thoughts ran 
through Colwyn’s mind as he murmured that the opinion 
of such an eminent specialist as Sir Henry Durwood 
on the case before them must naturally outweigh his own. 

“You are very good to say so.” Sir Henry spoke as 
though the tribute were no more than his due. “In my 
opinion, the symptoms of this young man point to 
epilepsy, and his behaviour downstairs was due to a 
seizure from which he is slowly recovering.” 

“Epilepsy ! Haut or petit mal ?” 

“The lesser form — petit mal, in my opinion.” 

“But are his symptoms consistent with the form of 
epilepsy known as petit mal, Sir Henry? I thought in 
that lesser form of the disease the victim merely suffered 
from slight seizures of transient unconsciousness, with- 
out convulsions, regaining control of himself after losing 
himself, to speak broadly, for a few seconds or so.” 

“Ah, I see you know something of the disease. That 
simplifies matters. The layman’s mind is usually at sea 
when it comes to discussing a complicated affection of 
the nervous system like epilepsy. You are more or less 
right in your definition of petit mal. But that is the 
simple form, without complications. In this case there 
are complications, in my opinion. I should say that this 
young man’s attack was combined with the form of 
epilepsy known as furor epilepticus/' 

“I am afraid you are getting beyond my depth, Sir 
Henry. What is furor epilepticus ?” 

“It is a term applied to the violence sometimes dis- 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


24 

played by the patient during an attack of petit mal. The 
manifestation is extreme violence — usually much greater 
than in violent anger, as a rule. ,, 

"I believe there are cases on record of epileptics hav- 
ing committed the most violent outrages against those 
nearest and dearest to them. Is that what you mean by 
furor epilepticus?" 

“Yes; but that attacks are generally directed to- 
wards strangers — rarely towards loved ones, though there 
have been such cases/’ 

“I begin to understand. When we were at the break- 
fast table your professional eye diagnosed this young 
man’s symptoms — his nervous tremors, his excitability, 
and the extravagant action with the knife — as premoni- 
tory symptoms of an attack of furor epilepticus, in which 
the sufferer would be liable to a dangerous outburst of 
violence ?” 

“Exactly. The minor symptoms suggested petit mal, 
but the act of sticking the knife into the table pointed 
strongly to the complication of furor epilepticus. That 
was why I went over to your table to have your assistance 
in case of trouble.” 

“You feared he would attack one of the guests?” 

‘Yes, epileptics are extremely dangerous in that con- 
dition, and will commit murder if they are in possession 
of a weapon. There have been cases in which they 
have succeeded in killing the victims of their fury.” 

“Without being conscious of it?” 

“Without being conscious of it then or afterwards. 
After the patient recovers from one of these attacks his 
mind is generally a complete blank, but occasionally he 
will have a troubled or confused sense of something 
having happened to him — like a man awakened from a 
bad dream, which he cannot recall. This young man 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


25 


may come to his senses without remembering anything 
which occurred downstairs, or he may be vaguely 
alarmed, and ask a number of questions. In either case, 
it will be some time — from half an hour to several hours 
— before his mind begins to work normally again.” 

“Do you think it was his intention, when he got up 
from his table, to attack the group at the table nearest him 
— that elderly clergyman and his party?” 

“I think it highly probable that he would have attacked 
the first person within his reach — that is why I wanted 
to prevent him.” 

“But he didn’t carry the knife with him from his 
table.” 

“My dear sir” — Sir Henry’s voice conveyed the proper 
amount of professional superiority — “you speak as 
though you thought a victim of furor epilepticus was a 
rational being. He is nothing of the kind. While the 
attack lasts he is an uncontrollable maniac, not respon- 
sible for his actions in the slightest degree.” 

“But, if he is capable of conceiving the idea of attack- 
ing his fellow creatures, surely he is capable of picking 
up a knife for the purpose, particularly when he has just 
previously had one in his hand ?” urged Colwyn. “I have 
no intention of setting up my opinion against yours, Sir 
Henry, but there are certain aspects of this young man’s 
illness which are not altogether consistent with my own 
experience of epileptics. As a criminologist, I have given 
some study to the effect of epilepsy and other nervous 
diseases on the criminal temperament. For instance, this 
young man did not give the usual cry of an epileptic when 
he sprang up from the table. And if it is merely an at- 
tack of petit mal, why is he so long in recovering con- 
sciousness ?” 

“The so-called epileptic cry is not invariably present, 


26 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


and petit mal is sometimes the half-way house to haut 
mal,” responded Sir Henry. “I have said that this case 
presents several unusual features, but, in my opinion, 
there is nothing absolutely inconsistent with epilepsy, 
combined with furor epilepticus. And here is one symp- 
tom rarely found in any fit except an epileptic seizure/’ 
The specialist pointed to a faint fleck of foam which 
showed beneath the young man’s brown moustache. 

Colwyn bent over him and wiped his lips with his 
handkerchief. As he did so the young man’s eyes un- 
closed. He regarded Colwyn languidly for a moment or 
two, and then sat upright on the bed. 

“Who are you ?” he exclaimed. 

“It’s quite all right, Mr. Ronald,” said the specialist, 
in his most soothing bedside manner. “Just take things 
easily. You have been ill, but you are almost yourself 
again. Let me feel your pulse — ha, very good indeed! 
We will have you on your legs in no time.” 

The young man verified the truth of the latter pre- 
diction by springing off his bed and regarding his visitors 
keenly. There was now, at all events, no lack of sanity 
and intelligence in his gaze. 

“What has happened? How did I get here?” 

“You fainted, and we brought you up to your room,” 
interposed Colwyn tactfully, before Sir Henry could 
speak. 

“Awfully kind of you. I remember now. I felt a bit 
seedy as I went downstairs, but I thought it would pass 
off. I don’t remember much more about it. I hope I 
didn’t make too much of an ass of myself before the 
others, going off like a girl in that way. You must have 
had no end of a bother in dragging me upstairs — very 
good of you to take the trouble.” He smiled faintly, and 
produced a cigarette case. 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


27 

“How do you feel now?” asked Sir Henry Durwood 
solemnly, disregarding the proffered case. 

“A bit as though I’d been kicked on the top of the head 
by a horse, but it’ll soon pass off. Fact is, I got a touch 
of sun when I was out there” — he waved his hand 
vaguely towards the East — “and it gives me a bit of 
trouble at times. But IT1 be all right directly. I’m sorry 
to have given you so much trouble.” 

He proffered this explanation with an easy courtesy, 
accompanied by a slight deprecating smile which admir- 
ably conveyed the regret of a well-bred man for having 
given trouble to strangers. It was difficult to reconcile 
his self-control with his previous extravagance down- 
stairs. But to Colwyn it was apparent that his com- 
posure was simulated, the effort of a sensitive man who 
had betrayed a weakness to strangers, for the fingers 
which held a cigarette trembled slightly, and there were 
troubled shadows in the depths of the dark blue eyes. 
Colwyn admired the young man’s pluck — he would wish 
to behave the same way himself in similar circumstances, 
he felt — and he realised that the best service he and Sir 
Henry Durwood could render their fellow guest was to 
leave him alone. 

But Sir Henry was far from regarding the matter 
in the same light. As a doctor he was more at home in 
other people’s bedrooms than his own, for rumour whis- 
pered that Lady Durwood was so jealous of her hus- 
band’s professional privileges as a fashionable ladies’ 
physician that she was in the habit of administering 
strong doses of matrimonial truths to him every night at 
home. Sir Henry settled himself in his chair, adjusted 
his eye-glasses more firmly on his nose and regarded the 
young man standing by the mantelpiece with a bland pro- 


28 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


fessional smile, slightly dashed by the recollection that 
he was not receiving a fee for his visit. 

“You have made a good recovery, but you’ll need 
care,” he said. “Speaking as a professional man — I am 
Sir Henry Durwood — I think it would be better for you 
if you had somebody with you who understood your case. 
With your — er — complaint, it is strongly advisable that 
you should not be left to the mercy of strangers. I would 
advise, strongly advise you, to communicate with your 
friends. I shall be only too happy to do so on your be- 
half if you will give me their address. In the meantime 
— until they arrive — my advice to you is to rest.” 

A look of annoyance flashed through the young man’s 
eyes. He evidently resented the specialist’s advice; in- 
deed, his glance plainly revealed that he regarded it as 
a piece of gratuitous impertinence. He answered coldly : 

“Many thanks, Sir Henry, but I think I shall be able to 
look after myself.” 

“That is not an uncommon feature of your complaint,” 
said the specialist. An oracular shake of the head con- 
veyed more than the words. 

“What do you imagine my complaint, as you term it, to 
be ?” asked the young man curtly. 

Colwyn wondered whether even a fashionable physi- 
cian, used to the freedom with which fashionable ladies 
discussed their ailments, would have the courage to tell 
a stranger that he regarded him as an epileptic. The 
matter was not put to the test — perhaps fortunately — for 
at that moment there was a sharp tap at the door, which 
opened to admit a chambermaid who seemed the last 
word in frills and smartness. 

“If you please, Sir Henry,” said the girl, with a side- 
long glance at the tall handsome young man by the 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 29 

mantelpiece, “Lady Durwood would be obliged if you 
would go to her room at once. ,, 

It speaks well for Sir Henry Durwood that the physi- 
cian was instantly merged in the husband. “Tell Lady 
Durwood I will come at once,” he, said. “You’ll excuse 
me,” he added, with a courtly bow to his patient. “Per- 
haps — if you wish — you might care to see me later.” 

“Many thanks, Sir Henry, but there will be no need.” 
He bowed gravely to the specialist, but smiled cordially 
and held out his hand to Colwyn, as the latter prepared 
to follow Sir Henry out of the room. “I hope to see you 
later,” he said. 

But when Colwyn, after a day spent on the golf-links, 
went into the dining-room for dinner that evening, the 
young man’s place was vacant. After the meal Colwyn 
went to the office to inquire if Mr. Ronald was still un- 
well, and learnt, to his surprise, that he had departed 
from the hotel an hour or so after his illness. 


CHAPTER III 


Lunch was over the following day, and the majority 
of the hotel guests were assembled in the lounge, some 
sitting round a log fire which roared and crackled in the 
old-fashioned fireplace, others wandering backwards and 
forwards to the hotel entrance to cast a weather eye on 
the black and threatening sky. 

During the night there had been one of those violent 
changes in the weather with which the denizens of the 
British Isles are not altogether unfamiliar ; a heavy storm 
had come shrieking down the North Sea, and though the 
rain had ceased about eleven o’clock the wind had blown 
hard all night, and that day, bringing with it from the 
Arctic a driving sleet and the first touch of bitter, icy, 
winter cold. 

The ladies of the hotel, who the previous day had 
paraded the front in light summer frocks, sat shivering 
round the fire in furs ; and the men walked up and down 
in little groups discussing the weather and the war. The 
golfers stood apart debating, after their wont, the pos- 
sibility of trying a round in spite of the weather. The 
elderly clergyman was prepared to risk it if he could find 
a partner, and, with the aid of an umbrella held upside 
down, was demonstrating to an attentive circle the possi- 
bility of going round the most open course in England 
in the teeth of the fiercest gale that ever blew, provided 
that a brassy was used instead of a driver. 

“I don’t see how you could drive a ball with either to- 
day,” said one of the doubtful ones. “You’d be driving 
30 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


3i 


right against the wind for the first four holes, and when 
you have the wind behind you at the bend in the cliff by 
the fifth, the force of the gale would probably carry your 
ball half a mile out to sea. These links here are supposed 
to be the most exposed in England.” 

“My dear sir, you surely do not call this a gale,” re- 
torted the clergyman. “I have played some of my best 
games in a stronger wind than this. And as for this be- 
ing the most exposed course in England — well, let me 
ask you one question : have you ever played over the 
Worthing course with a strong northeast gale — a gale, 
mind you, not a wind — sweeping over the Downs ?” 

“Can’t say I have,” grunted the previous speaker, a 
tall cadaverous man, wrapped from head to foot in a 
great grey ulster, and wearing woollen gloves. “In fact, 
I’ve never been on the Worthing course.” 

“I thought not.” The clergyman’s face showed a golf- 
er’s satisfaction at having tripped a fellow player. “The 
Worthing course is the worst country course in England, 
all up hill and down dale, and full of pitfalls for those 
who don’t know its peculiarities. I had a very remark- 
able experience there, last year, with the crack local 
player — his handicap was plus two. We played a round 
in a gale with the wind whistling over the high downs 
at the rate of seventy or eighty miles an hour. My part- 
ner didn’t want to play at first because of the weather, 
but I persuaded him to go round, and I beat him by two 
up and four to play solely by relying on the brassy and 
midiron. He stuck to the driver, and lost in consequence. 
I’ll just show you how the game went. Suppose the first 
hole to be just beyond the hall door there, and you drive 
off from here. Now, imagine that umbrella stand — 
would you mind moving away a little from it, sir? Thank 
you — to be a group of fir trees fully a hundred yards to 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


32 

the right of the fairway. Well, I got a shot 160 yards 
up the fairway with a low straight ball which never lifted 
more than a yard from the green, but my opponent, in- 
stead of sticking to the brassy, as I did, preferred to use 
his big driver, and what do you think happened to him? 
The wind took his ball clean over the fir trees.” 

The story was interrupted by the sudden entrance from 
outside of a young officer who had been taking a turn on 
the front. He strode hurriedly into the lounge, with a 
look of excitement on his good-humoured boyish face, 
and accosted the golfers, who happened to be nearest the 
door. 

“I say, you fellows, what do you think has happened? 
You remember that chap who fainted yesterday morning? 
Well, he’s wanted for committing a murder!” 

The piece of news created the sensation that its im- 
parter had counted upon. “A murder !” was echoed from 
different parts of the lounge in varying degrees of horror, 
amazement and dread, and the majority of the guests 
came eagerly crowding round to hear the details. 

“Yes, a murder!” repeated the young officer, with 
relish. “And, what’s more, he committed it after he left 
here yesterday. He walked across to some inn a few 
miles from here along the coast, put up there for the 
night, and in the middle of the night knifed some old 
chap who was staying there.” 

There was a lengthy pause while the hotel guests di- 
gested this startling information, and endeavoured to 
register anew their previous faint impressions of the 
young man of the alcove table in the new light of his 
personality as an alleged murderer. The pause was fol- 
lowed by an excited hum of conversation and eager ques- 
tions, the ladies all talking at once. 

“What a providential escape we have all had!” ex- 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


33 

claimed the clergyman’s wife, her fresh comely face 
turning pale. 

“That’s just what I said myself, madam, when I heard 
the news,” replied the young officer. 

“I presume this murderous young ruffian has been se- 
cured ?” asked the clergyman, who had turned even paler 
than his wife. “The police, I hope, have him under ar- 
rest.” 

The young officer shook his head. 

“He’s shown them a clean pair of heels. He may be 
heading back this way, for all I know. There will be a 
hue and cry over the whole of Norfolk for him by 
to-night, but murderers are usually very crafty, and diffi- 
cult to catch. I bet they won’t catch him before he mur- 
ders somebody else.” 

The men looked at one another gravely, and some of 
the ladies gave vent to cries of alarm, and clung to their 
husband’s arms. The clergyman turned angrily on the 
man who had brought the news. 

“What do you mean, sir, by blurting out a piece of news 
like this before a number of ladies ?” he said sternly. “It 
was imprudent and foolish in the last degree. You have 
alarmed them exceedingly.” 

‘‘Oh, that’s all tosh !” replied the other rudely. “They 
were bound to hear of it sooner or later ; why, everybody 
on the front is talking about it. I thought you’d be 
awfully bucked to hear the news, seeing that you were 
sitting at the next table to him yesterday morning.” 

“Who gave you this information ?” asked Colwyn, who 
had just come down stairs wearing a motor coat and 
cap, and paused on his way to the door on hearing the 
loud voices of the excited group round the young officer. 

“One of the fishermen on the front. The police con- 
stable at the place where the murder was committed— 


34 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


a little village with some outlandish name — came over 
here to report the news. This is the nearest police sta- 
tion to the spot, it seems.” 

“But is he quite certain that the man who is supposed 
to have committed the murder is the young man who 
fainted yesterday morning?” asked Sir Henry Durwood, 
who had joined the group. “Has he been positively 
identified ?” 

“The fisherman tells me that there's no doubt it’s him 
— the description's identical. He cleared out before the 
murder was discovered. There’s a rare hue and cry all 
along the coast. They are organising search parties. 
There's one going out from here this afternoon. I’m 
going with it.” 

Colwyn left the group of hotel guests, and went to the 
front door. Sir Henry Durwood, after a moment’s hesi- 
tation, followed him. The detective was standing in the 
hotel porch, thoughtfully smoking a cigar, and looking 
out over the raging sea. He nodded cordially to the 
specialist. 

“What do you think of this story?” asked Sir Henry. 

“I was just about to walk down to the police station 
to make some inquiries,” responded Colwyn. “It is im- 
possible to tell from that man's story how much is truth 
and how much mere gossip.” 

“I’m afraid it’s true enough,” replied Sir Henry Dur- 
wood. “You’ll remember I warned him yesterday to 
send for his friends. A man in his condition of health 
should not have been permitted to wander about the 
country unattended. He has probably had another attack 
of furor epilepticus, and killed somebody while under its 
influence. Dear, dear, what a dreadful thing! It may 
be said that I should have taken a firmer hand with him 
yesterday, but what more could I have done ? It’s a very 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


35 


awkward situation — very. I hope you’ll remember, Mr. 
Colwyn, that I did all that was humanly possibly for a 
professional man to do — in fact, I went beyond the 
bounds of professional decorum, in tendering advice to a 
perfect stranger. And you will also remember that what 
I told you about his condition was in the strictest confi- 
dence. I should like very much to accompany you to the 
police station, if you have no objection — I feel strongly 
interested in the case.” 

“I shall be glad if you will come,” replied the de- 
tective. 

Colwyn turned down the short street to the front, 
where a footpath protected by a hand rail had been made 
along the edge of the cliff for the benefit of jaded London 
visitors who wanted to get the best value for their money 
in the bracing Norfolk air. At the present moment that 
air, shrieking across the North Sea with almost hurri- 
cane force, was too bracing for weak nerves on the ex- 
posed path, and it was real hard work to force a way, 
even with the help of the handrail, against the wind, to 
say nothing of the spray which was flung up in clouds 
from the thundering masses of yellow waves dashing at 
the foot of the cliffs below. Sir Henry Durwood, at 
any rate, was very glad when his companion turned away 
from the cliffs into one of the narrow tortuous streets 
running off the front into High Street. 

Colwyn paused in front of a stone building, half way up 
the street, which displayed the words, “County Police,” 
on a board outside. Knots of people were standing about 
in the road — fishermen in jerseys and seaboots, some 
women, and a sprinkling of children — brought together 
by the news of murder, but kept from encroaching 
on the sacred domain of law and order by a massive red- 
faced country policeman, who stood at the gate in an 


36 THE SHRIEKING PIT 

awkward pose of official dignity, staring straight in front 
of him, ignoring the eager questions which were showered 
on him by the crowd. The group of people nearest the 
gate fell back a little as they approached, and the police- 
man on duty looked at them inquiringly. 

Colwyn asked him the name of the officer in charge 
of the district, and received the reply that it was Super- 
intendent Galloway. The policeman looked somewhat 
doubtful when Colwyn asked him to take in his card with 
the request for an interview. He compromised between 
his determination to do the right thing and his desire not 
to offend two well-dressed gentlemen by taking Col- 
wyn into his confidence. 

“Well, you see, sir, it’s like this,” he said, sinking his 
voice so that his remarks should not be heard by the sur- 
rounding rabble. “I don’t like to interrupt Superin- 
tendent Galloway unless it’s very important. The chief 
constable is with him.” 

“Do you mean Mr. Cromering, from Norwich?” asked 
Colwyn. 

The policeman nodded. 

“He came over here by the morning train,” he ex- 
plained. 

“Very good. I know Mr. Cromering well. Will you 
please take this card to the chief constable and say that 
I should be glad of the favour of a short interview? 
This is a piece of luck,” he added to Sir Henry, as the 
constable took the card and disappeared into the building. 
“We shall now be able to find out all we want to know.” 

The police constable came hastening back, and with a 
very respectful air informed them that Mr. Cromering 
would be only too happy to see Mr. Colwyn. He led 
them forthwith into the building, down a passage, 
knocked at a door, and without waiting for a response, 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


37 


ushered them into a large room and quietly withdrew. 

There were two officials in the room. One, in uniform, 
a heavily built stout man with sandy hair and a red 
freckled face, sat at a large roll-top desk writing at the 
dictation of the other, who wore civilian clothes. The 
second official was small and elderly, of dry and meagre 
appearance, with a thin pale face, and sunken blue eyes 
beneath gold- rimmed spectacles. This gentleman left off 
dictating as Colwyn and Sir Henry Durwood entered, and 
advanced to greet the detective with a look which might 
have been mistaken for gratitude in a less important 
personage. 

Mr. Cromering’s gratitude to Colwyn was not due to 
any assistance he had received from the detective in the 
elucidation of baffling crime mysteries. It arose from an 
entirely different cause. Wolfe is supposed to have said 
that he would sooner have been remembered as the author 
of Gray’s “Elegy in a Country Churchyard” than as 
the conqueror of Quebec. Mr. Cromering would sooner 
have been the editor of the English Review than the 
chief constable of Norfolk. His tastes were bookish; 
Nature had intended him for the librarian of a circulat- 
ing library : the safe pilot of middle class ladies through 
the ocean of new fiction which overwhelms the British 
Isles twice a year. His particular hobby was palaeontol- 
ogy. He was the author of The Jurassic Deposits of 
Norfolk , with Some Remarks on the Kimeridge Clay — 
an exhaustive study of the geological formation of the 
county and the remains of prehistoric reptiles, fishes, 
mollusca and Crustacea which had been discovered 
therein. This work, which had taken six years to prepare, 
had almost been lost to the world through the careless- 
ness of the Postal Department, which had allowed the 


r 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


38 

manuscript to go astray while in transit from Norfolk 
to the London publishers. 

The distracted author had stirred up the postal authori- 
ties at London and Norwich, and had ultimately received 
a courteous communication from the Postmaster Gen- 
eral to the effect that all efforts to trace the missing 
packet had failed. A friend of Mr. Cromering’s sug- 
gested that he should invoke the aid of the famous de- 
tective Colwyn, who had a name for solving mysteries 
which baffled the police. Mr. Cromering took the advice 
and wrote to Colwyn, offering to mention his name in 
a preface to The Jurassic Deposits if he succeeded in re- 
covering the missing manuscript. Colwyn, by dint of 
bringing to bear a little more intelligence and energy 
than the postal officials had displayed, ran the manu- 
script to earth in three days, and forwarded it to the 
owner with a courteous note declining the honour of 
the offered preface as too great a reward for such a 
small service. 

“Very happy to meet you, Mr. Colwyn,” said the chief 
constable, as he came forward with extended hand. 
“Pve long wanted to thank you personally for your kind- 
ness — your great kindness to me last year. Although T 
feel I can never repay it, I’m glad to have the oppor- 
tunity of expressing it.” 

“Pm afraid you are over-estimating a very small ser- 
vice,” said Colwyn, with a smile. 

“Very small?” The chief constable’s emphasis of the 
words suggested that his pride as an author had been 
hurt. “If you had not recovered the manuscript, a work 
of considerable interest to students of British palaeontol- 
ogy would have been lost. I must show you a letter I 
have just received from Sir Thomas Potter, of the Brit- 
ish Museum, agreeing with my conclusions about the 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


39 


fossil remains of Ichthyosaurus, Pleiosaurus, and Mosa- 
saurus, discovered last year at Roslyn Hole. It is very 
gratifying to me; very gratifying. But what can I do 
for you, Mr. Colwyn ?” 

“First let me introduce to you Sir Henry Durwood,” 
said Colwyn. 

“Durwood? Did you say Durwood ?” said the little 
man, eagerly advancing upon the specialist with out- 
stretched hand. “I’m delighted to meet one of our top- 
most men of science. Your illuminating work on Ele- 
phas Meridionalis is a classic.’" 

“I’m afraid you’re confusing Sir Henry with a differ- 
ent Durwood,” said the detective, coming to the res- 
cue. “Sir Henry Durwood is the distinguished special- 
ist of Harley Street, and not the palaeontologist of 
that name. We have called to make some inquiries 
about the murder which was committed somewhere near 
here last night.” 

“The ruling passion, Mr. Colwyn, the ruling passion! 
Personally I should be only too glad of your assistance 
in the case in question, but I’m afraid there’s no deep 
mystery to unravel — it’s not worth your while. It would 
be like cracking a nut with a Nasymth hammer for you 
to devote your brains to this case. All the indications 
point strongly to one man.” 

“A young man who was staying at the Grand till yes- 
terday?” inquired the detective. 

The chief constable nodded. 

“We’re looking for a young man who’s been staying 
at the Grand for some weeks past under the name of 
Ronald. He’s a stranger to the district, and nobody 
seems to know anything about him. Perhaps you gentle- 
men can tell me something about him.” 

“Very little, I’m afraid,” replied Colwyn. “I’ve seen 


40 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


him at meal times, and nodded to him, but never spoken 
to him till yesterday, when he had a fainting fit at break- 
fast. Sir Henry Durwood and I helped him to his 
bedroom, and exchanged a few remarks with him on his 
recovery. 

“Yes, I’ve been told of that illness,” said Mr. Cromer- 
ing, meditating. “Did he do or say anything while you 
were with him that would throw any light on the subse- 
quent tragic events of the night, for which he is now 
under suspicion ?” 

Colwyn related what had happened at breakfast and 
afterwards. Mr. Cromering listened attentively, and 
turning to Sir Henry Durwood asked him if he had seen 
Ronald before the previous day. 

“I saw him yesterday for the first time at the break- 
fast table,” replied Sir Henry Durwood. “I arrived 
only the previous night. He was taken ill at breakfast. 
Mr. Colwyn and I assisted him to his room and left him 
there. I know nothing whatever about him.” 

“What was the nature of his illness?” inquired the 
chief constable. 

“It had some of the symptoms of a seizure,” replied 
Sir Henry guardedly. “I begged him, when he re- 
covered, not to leave his room. I even offered to com- 
municate with his friends, by telephone, if he would give 
me their address, but he refused.” 

“It is a pity he did not take your advice,” responded 
the chief constable. “He appears to have left the hotel 
shortly after his illness, and walked along the coast 
to a little hamlet called Flegne, about ten miles from 
here. He reached there in the evening, and put up at 
the village inn, the Golden Anchor, for the night. He 
left early in the morning, before anybody was up. 
Shortly afterwards the body of Mr. Roger Glenthorpe, 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


4i 


an elderly archaeologist, who had been staying at the inn 
for some time past making researches into the fossil 
remains common to that part of Norfolk, was found 
in a pit near the house. The tracks of boot-prints from 
the inn to the mouth of the pit, and back again, indicate 
that Mr. Glenthorpe was murdered in his bedroom at 
the inn, and his body afterwards carried by the mur- 
derer to the pit in which it was found.” 

“In order to conceal the crime?” said Colwyn. 

“Precisely.” 

“Who found the body?” 

“Some men employed by Mr. Glenthorpe to excavate 
for fossil remains. Their suspicions were aroused by the 
footsteps and some blood stains at the mouth of the pit. 
One of them was lowered by a rope, and brought the body 
up from the bottom. The pit forms a portion of a num- 
ber of so-called hut circles, or prehistoric shelters of 
the early Briton, which are not uncommon in this part 
of Norfolk.” 

“And you have strong grounds for believing that this 
young man Ronald, who was staying at the Grand till 
yesterday, is the murderer?” 

“The very strongest. He slept in the room next to 
the murdered man’s, and disappeared hurriedly in the 
early morning from the inn some time before the body 
was discovered. It is his boot-tracks which led to and 
from the pit where the body was found. A consider- 
able sum of money has been stolen from the deceased, 
and we have ascertained that Ronald was in desperate 
straits for money. Another point against Ronald is 
that Mr. Glenthorpe was stabbed, and a knife which was 
used by Ronald at the dinner table that night is missing. 
It is believed that the murder was committed with this 
knife. But if you feel interested in the case, Mr. Col- 


42 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


wyn, you had better hear the report of Police Con- 
stable Queensmead.” 

The chief constable touched a bell, and directed the 
policeman who answered it to bring in Constable Queens- 
mead. 

The policeman who appeared in answer to this sum- 
mons was a thickset sturdy Norfolk man, with an in- 
telligent face and shrewd dark eyes. On the chief con- 
stable informing him that he was to give the gentlemen 
the details of the Golden Anchor murder, he produced 
a notebook from his tunic, and commenced the story 
with official precision. 

Ronald had arrived at the inn before dark on the 
previous evening, and had asked for a bed for the night 
A little later Mr. Glenthorpe, the murdered man, who 
had been staying at the inn for some time past, had 
come in for his dinner, and was so pleased to meet a 
gentleman in that rough and lonely place that he had 
asked Ronald to dine with him. The dinner was served 
in an upstairs sitting-room, and during the course of the 
meal Mr. Glenthorpe talked freely of his scientific re- 
searches in the district, and informed his guest that he 
had that day been to Heathfield to draw £300 to pur- 
chase a piece of land containing some valuable fossil 
remains which he intended to excavate. The two gentle- 
men sat talking after dinner till between ten and eleven, 
and then retired to rest in adjoining rooms, in a wing 
of the inn occupied by nobody else. In the morning 
Ronald departed before anybody, except the servant, 
was up, refusing to wait for his boots to be cleaned. 
The servant, who had had the boots in her hands, had 
noticed that one of the boots had a circular rubber heel 
on it, but not the other. Ronald gave her a pound to 
pay for his bed, and the note was one of the first Treas- 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


43 


ury issue, as were the notes which Mr. Glenthorpe had 
drawn from the bank at Heathfield the day before. The 
body of the murdered man was discovered in the pit 
about an hour after Ronald’s departure, and Con- 
stable Queensmead, after hearing the servant’s story 
and examining the footprints, telephoned a description 
of Ronald to the police stations along the coast, then 
mounted his bicycle and caught the train at Leyland in 
order to report the matter to the district headquarters at 
Durrington. 

‘T suppose there is no doubt that the young man who 
stayed at the inn is identical with Ronald,” said the de- 
tective, when the constable had finished his story. “Do 
the descriptions tally in every respect?” 

“Read the particulars you have prepared for the hand- 
bills, Queensmead,” said the chief constable. 

The constable produced a paper from his pocket and 
read: “Description of wanted man: About 28 years of 
age, five feet ten or eleven inches high, fair complexion 
rather sunburnt, blue eyes, straight nose, fair hair, tooth- 
brush moustache, clean-cut features, well-shaped hands 
and feet, white, even teeth. Was attired in grey Nor- 
folk or sporting lounge jacket, knickerbockers and stock- 
ings to match, with soft grey hat of same material. 
Wore a gold signet-ring on little finger of left hand. 
Distinguishing marks, a small star-shaped scar on left 
cheek, slightly dragged left foot in walking. Manner 
superior, evidently a gentleman.’ ” 

“That is conclusive enough,” said Colwyn. “It tallies 
in every respect. The scar is an unmistakable mark. 
I noticed it the first time I saw Ronald.” 

“I noticed it also,” said Sir Henry Durwood. 

“It seems a clear case to me,” said the chief constable. 
“I have signed a warrant for Ronald' s arrest, and Super- 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


44 

intendent Galloway has notified all the local stations 
along the coast to have the district searched. We think 
it very possible that Ronald is in hiding somewhere in 
the marshes. We have also notified the district railway 
stations to be on the lookout for anybody answering his 
description, in case he tries to escape by rail. ,, 

“It seems a strange case,” remarked the detective 
thoughtfully. “Why should a young man of Ronald’s 
type leave his hotel and go across to this remote inn, 
and commit this brutal murder ?” 

“He was very short of money. We have ascertained 
that he had been requested to leave the hotel here be- 
cause he could not pay his bill. He has paid nothing 
since he has been here, and owed more than £30. The 
proprietor told him yesterday morning, as he was going 
in to breakfast, that he must leave the hotel at once if 
he could not pay his bill. He went away shortly after 
the scene in the breakfast room which was witnessed by 
you gentlemen, and left his luggage behind him. I sus- 
pect the proprietor would not allow him to take his lug- 
gage until he had discharged his bill.” 

“It strikes me as a remarkable case, nevertheless,” 
said Colwyn. “I should like to look into it a little fur- 
ther, with your permission.” 

“Certainly,” replied the chief constable courteously. 
“Superintendent Galloway will be in charge of the case. 
I suggested that he should ask for a man to be sent 
down from Scotland Yard, but he does not think it 
necessary. I feel sure that he will be delighted to have 
the assistance of such a celebrated detective as yourself. 
When are you starting for Flegne, Galloway?” 

“In half an hour,” replied the superintendent. “I 
shall have to walk from Leyland — five miles or more. 
The train does not go beyond there.” 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 45 

“Then I will drive you over in my car,” said the de- 
tective. 

“In that case perhaps you’ll permit me to accompany 
you,” said the chief constable. “I should very much like 
to observe your methods.” 

“And I too,” said Sir Henry Durwood. 


CHAPTER IV 


The road to Flegne skirted the settled and prosperous 
cliff uplands, thence ran through the sea marshes which 
stretched along that part of the Norfolk coast as far 
as the eye could reach until they were merged and lost 
to view in the cold northern mists. 

The road, after leaving the uplands, descended in a 
sinuous curve towards the sea, but the party in the 
motor car were stopped on their way down by a young 
mounted officer, who, on learning of their destination, 
told them they would have to make an inland detour for 
some miles, as the military authorities had closed that 
part of the coast to ordinary traffic 

As they turned away from the coast, the chief con- 
stable informed Colwyn that the prohibited area was 
full of troops guarding a little bay called Leyland Hoop, 
where the water was so deep that hostile transports 
might anchor close inshore, and where, according to 
ancient local tradition, 

“He who would Old England win, 

Must at the Leyland Hoop begin ” 

After traversing a mile or so of open country, and 
passing through one or two scattered villages, they 
turned back to the coast again on the other side of a high 
green headland which marked the end of the prohibited 
area, and, crossing the bridge of a shallow muddy river, 
found themselves in the area of the marshes. 

It was a region of swamps and stagnant dykes, of 
tussockland and wet flats, with scarcely a stir of life 
46 


3 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


47 


in any part of it, and nothing to take the eye except a 
stone cottage here and there. 

The marshes stretched from the road to the sea, nearly 
a mile away. Man had almost given up the task of at- 
tempting to wrest a living from this inhospitable region. 
The boat channels which threaded the ooze were choked 
with weed and covered with green slime from long dis- 
use, the little stone quays were thick with moss, the 
rotting planks of a broken fishing boat were foul with 
the encrustations of long years, the stone cottages by 
the roadside seemed deserted. Here and there the 
marshes had encroached upon the far side of the road, 
creeping half a mile or more farther inland, destroying 
the wholesome earth like rust corroding steel, and 
stretching slimy tentacles towards the farmlands on the 
rise. 

Humanity had retreated from the inroads of the sea 
only after a stubborn fight. The ruins of an Augustinian 
priory, a crumbling fragment of a Norman tower, the 
mouldering remnant of a castellated hall, showed how 
prolonged had been the struggle with the elements of 
Nature before Man had acknowledged his defeat and re- 
treated, leaving hostages behind him. And — significant 
indication of the bitterness of the fight — it was to be 
noted that, while the builders of a bygone generation had 
built to face the sea, the handful of their successors who 
still kept up the losing fight had built their beachstone 
cottages with sturdy stone backs to the road, for the 
greater protection of the inmates from the fierce winter 
gales which swept across the marshes from the North 
Sea. 

The car had travelled some miles through this desolate 
region when the chief constable directed Colwyn’s at- 
tention to a spire rising from the flats a mile or so away, 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


48 

and said it was the church of Flegne-next-sea. Colwyn 
increased his speed a little, and in a few minutes the car 
had reached the outskirts of the little hamlet, which con- 
sisted of a straggling row of beachstone cottages, a few 
gaunt farm-houses on the rise, and a cruciform church 
standing back from the village on a little hill, with high 
turret or beacon lights which had warned the North 
Sea mariners of a former generation of the dangers 
of that treacherous coast. 

In times past Flegne-next-sea — pronounced “Fly” by 
the natives, “Fleen” by etymologists, and “Flegney” by 
the rare intrusive Cockney — had doubtless been a pros- 
perous little port, but the encroaching sea had long since 
killed its trade, scattered its inhabitants, and reduced it 
to a spectre of human habitation compelled to keep the 
scene of its former activities after life had departed. 
Half the stone cottages were untenanted, with broken 
windows, flapping doors, and gardens overgrown with 
rank marsh weeds. The road through the village had 
fallen into disrepair, and oozed beneath the weight of 
the car, a few boards thrown higgledy-piggledy across 
in places representing the local effort to preserve the 
roadway from the invading marshes. The little canal 
quay — a wooden one — was a tangle of rotting boards and 
loose piles, and the stagnant green water of the shallow 
canal was abandoned to a few grey geese, which honked 
angrily at the passing car. There was no sign of life 
in the village street, and no sound except the autumn 
wind moaning across the marshes and the boom of the 
distant sea against the breakwater. 

“There’s the inn — straight in front,” said Police-Con- 
stable Queensmead, pointing to it. 

The Golden Anchor inn must have been built in the 
days of Sir Cloudesley Shovel, for nothing remained of 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


49 


the maritime prosperity which had originally bestowed 
the name upon the building. It was of rough stone, 
coloured a dirty white, with two queer circular windows 
high up in the wall on one side, the other side rest- 
ing on a little, round-shouldered hill. It was built facing 
away from the sea like the beachstone cottages, from 
which it was separated by a patch of common. From 
the rear of the inn the marshes stretched in unbroken 
monotony to the line of leaping white sea dashing sul- 
lenly against the breakwater wall, and ran for miles 
north and south in a desolate uniformity, still and grey 
as the sky above, devoid of life except for a few migrant 
birds feeding in the salt creeks or winging their way 
seaward in strong, silent flight. The rays of the after- 
noon sun, momentarily piercing the thick clouds, fell on 
the white wall and round glazed windows of the inn, 
giving it a sinister resemblance to a dead face. 

Colwyn brought his car to a standstill on the edge of 
the saturated strip of common. 

“We shall have to walk across,” he said. 

“Nobody will run off with the car,” said Galloway, 
scrambling down from his seat. 

“The murderer brought the body from the back of the 
house across this green, and carried it up that rise in 
front of the inn,” said Queensmead. “You cannot see 
the pit from here, but it is close to that little wood on 
the summit. The footprints do not show in the grass, 
but they are very plain in the clay a little farther on, 
and lead straight to the pit.” 

“How deep is the pit?” asked Colwyn. 

“About thirty feet. It was not an easy matter to bring 
up the body.” 

“We will examine the pit and the footprints later,” 
said Mr. Cromering. “Let us go inside first.” 


50 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


Picking their way across the common to the front of 
the inn, they encountered a little group of men con- 
versing underneath the rusty old anchor signboard which 
dangled from a stout stanchion above the front door of 
the inn. Some men, wearing seaboots and jerseys, 
others in labouring garb, splashed with clay and mud, 
were standing about. They ceased their conversation as 
the party from the motor-car appeared around the 
corner, and, moving a respectful distance away, watched 
them covertly. 

The front door of the inn was closed. Superintendent 
Galloway tapped at it sharply, and after the lapse of a 
moment or two the door was opened, and a man appeared 
on the threshold. Seeing the police uniforms he stepped 
outside as if to make more room for the party to enter 
the narrow passage from which he had emerged. Col- 
wyn noticed that he was so tall that he had to stoop in 
the old-fashioned doorway as he came out. 

Seen at close quarters, this man was a strange speci- 
men of humanity. He was well over six feet in height, 
and so cadaverous, thin and gaunt that he might well 
have been mistaken for the presiding genius of the 
marshes who had stricken that part of the Norfolk coast 
with aridity and barrenness. But there was no lack of 
strength in his frame as he advanced briskly towards his 
visitors. His face was not the least remarkable part 
of him. It was ridiculously small and narrow for so big 
a frame, with a great curved beak of a nose, and small 
bright eyes set close together. Those eyes were at the 
present moment glancing with birdlike swiftness from 
one to the other of his visitors. 

“You are the innkeeper — the landlord of this place?” 
asked Mr. Cromering. 

“At your service, sir. Won’t you go inside?” His 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


5i 


voice was the best part of him; soft and gentle, with a 
cultivated accent which suggested that the speaker had 
known a different environment at some time or other. 

“Show us into a private room/’ said Mr. Cromering. 

The innkeeper escorted the party along the passage, 
and took them into a room with a low ceiling and sanded 
floor, smelling of tobacco, explaining, as he placed chairs, 
that it was the bar parlour, but they would be quiet and 
free from interruption in it, because he had closed the 
inn that day in anticipation of the police visit. 

“Quite right — very proper,” said the chief constable. 

“Will you and the other gentlemen take any refresh- 
ment, after your journey?” suggested the innkeeper. 
“Pm afraid the resources of the inn are small, but there 
is some excellent old brandy.” 

He stretched out an arm towards the bell rope behind 
him. Colwyn noticed that his hand was long and thin 
and yellow — a skeleton claw covered with parchment. 

“Never mind the brandy just now,” said Mr. Cromer- 
ing, taking on himself to refuse on behalf of his com- 
panions the proffered refreshment. “We have much to 
do and it will be time enough for refreshments after- 
wards. We will view the body first, and make inquiries 
after. Where is the body, Benson?” 

“Upstairs, sir.” 

“Take us to the room.” 

The innkeeper led the way upstairs along a dark and 
narrow passage. When he reached a door near the end, 
he opened it and stood aside for them to enter. 

“This is the room,” he said, in a low voice. It was 
Colwyn’s keen eye that noted the key in the door. 
“What is that key doing in the door, on the outside ?” he 
asked. “How long has it been there?” 

“The maid found it there this morning, sir, when she 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


52 

went up with Mr. Glenthorpe’s hot water. That made 
her suspect something must be wrong, because Mr. 
Glenthorpe was in the habit of locking his door of a 
night and placing the key under his pillow. So, after 
knocking and getting no answer, she opened the door, 
and found the room empty.” 

“The door was not locked, though the key was in the 
door ?” 

“No, sir, and everything in the room was just as usual. 
Nothing had been disturbed.” 

“And was that bedroom window open when you found 
the room empty ?” asked Superintendent Galloway, point- 
ing to it through the open doorway. 

“Yes, sir — just as you see it now. I gave orders that 
nothing was to be touched.” 

“Ronald slept in this room,” said Queensmead, indicat- 
ing the door of the adjoining bedroom. 

“We will look at that later,” said Galloway. 

The interior of the room they entered was surprisingly 
light and cheerful and spacious, having nothing in com- 
mon with those low gloomy vaults, crammed with clumsy 
furniture and moth-eaten stuffed animals, which gener- 
ally pass muster as bedrooms in English country inns. 
Instead of the small circular windows of the south side, 
there was a large modern two-paned window in a line 
with the door, opening on to the other side of the house. 
The bottom pane was up, and the window opened as 
wide as possible. A very modem touch, unusual in a 
remote country inn, was a rose coloured gas globe sus- 
pended from the ceiling, in the middle of the room. The 
furniture belonged to a past period, but it was handsome 
and well-kept — a Spanish mahogany wardrobe, chest of 
drawers and washstand with chairs to match. Modern 
articles, such as a small writing-desk near the window, 


S3 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 

some library books, a fountain pen, a reading-lamp by 
the bedside, and an attache case, suggested the personal 
possessions and modern tastes of the last occupant. A 
comfortable carpet covered the floor, and some faded 
oil-paintings adorned the walls. 

The bed — a large wooden one, but not a fourposter — 
stood on the left-hand side of the room from the en- 
trance, with the head against the wall nearest the outside 
passage, and the foot partly in line with the open window, 
which was about eight feet away from it. The door 
when pushed back swung just clear of a small bedroom 
table beside the bed, on which the reading lamp stood, 
with a book beside it. The other side of the bed was 
close to the wall which divided the room from the next 
bedroom, so that there was a large clear space on the 
outside, between the bed and the door. The gas fitting, 
which was suspended from the ceiling in this open space, 
hung rather low, the bottom of the globe being not more 
than six feet from the floor. The globe was cracked, 
and the incandescent burner was broken. 

The murdered man had been laid in the middle of the 
bed, and covered with a sheet. Superintendent Gallo- 
way quietly drew the sheet away, revealing the massive 
white head and clear-cut death mask of a man of sixty 
or sixty-five; a fine powerful face, benign in expression, 
with a chin and mouth of marked character and individ- 
uality. But the distorted contour of the half-open 
mouth, and the almost piteous expression of the unclosed 
sightless eyes, seemed to beseech the assistance of those 
who now bent over him, revealing only too clearly that 
death had come suddenly and unexpectedly. 

“He was a great archaeologist — one of the greatest in 
England,’’ said Mr. Cromering gently, with something of 
a tremor in his voice, as he gazed down at the dead 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


54 

man’s face. “To think that such a man should have been 
struck down by an assassin’s blow. What a loss !” 

“Let us see how he was murdered,” said the more 
practical Galloway, who was standing beside his superior 
officer. He drew off the covering sheet as he spoke, and 
dropped it lightly on the floor. 

The body thus revealed was that of a slightly built man 
of medium height. It was clad in a flannel sleeping suit, 
spattered with mud and clay, and oozing with water. 
The arms were inclining outwards from the body, and the 
legs were doubled up. There were a few spots of blood 
on the left breast, and immediately beneath, almost on 
the left side, just visible in the stripe of the pyjama 
jacket, was the blow which had caused death — a small 
orifice like a knife cut, just over the heart. 

“It is a very small wound to have killed so strong a 
man,” said Mr. Cromering. “There is hardly any blood.” 

Sir Henry examined the wound closely. “The blow 
was struck with great force, and penetrated the heart. 
The weapon used — a small, thin, steel instrument — and 
internal bleeding, account for the small external flow.” 

“What do you mean by a thin, steel instrument ?” asked 
Superintendent Galloway. “Would an ordinary table- 
knife answer that description?” 

“Certainly. In fact, the nature of the wound strongly 
suggests that it was made by a round-headed, flat-bladed 
weapon, such as an ordinary table or dinner knife. The 
thrust was made horizontally, — that is, across the ribs 
and between them, instead of perpendicularly, which is 
the usual method of stabbing. Apparently the murderer 
realised that his knife was too broad for the purpose, 
and turned it the other way, so as to make sure of pene- 
trating the ribs and reaching the heart.” 

“Does not that suggest a rather unusual knowledge of 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


55 

human anatomy on the murderer’s part?” asked Mr. 
Cromering. 

“1 do not think so. Anybody can tell how far apart 
the human ribs are by feeling them.” 

“It is easy to see, Sir Henry, that the wound was made 
by a thin-bladed knife, but why do you think it was 
also round-headed?” asked Superintendent Galloway. 
“Might it not have been a sharp-pointed one?” 

“Or even a dagger?” suggested Mr. Cromering. 

“Certainly not a dagger. The ordinary dagger would 
have made a wider perforation with a corresponding in- 
crease in the bloodflow. My theory of a round-headed 
knife is based on the circumstance of a portion of the 
deceased’s pyjama jacket having been carried into the 
wound. A sharp-pointed knife would have made a clean 
cut through the jacket.” 

“I see,” said Superintendent Galloway, with a sharp 
nod. 

“Therefore, we may assume, in the case before us,” — 
Sir Henry Durwood waved a fat white hand in the direc- 
tion of the corpse as though he were delivering an an- 
atomical lecture before a class of medical students — “that 
the victim was killed with a flat, round knife with a 
round edge, held sideways. Furthermore, the position of 
the wound reveals that the blow was too much on the 
left side to pierce the centre of the heart directly, but 
was a slanting blow, delivered with such force that it 
has probably pierced the heart on the right side, causing 
instant death.” 

“The weapon, then, entered the body in a lateral direc- 
tion, that is, from left to right?” asked Colwyn, who had 
been closely following the specialist’s remarks. 

“That is what I meant to convey,” responded Sir 
Henry, in his most professional manner. “The blade 


56 THE SHRIEKING PIT 

entered on the left side, and travelled towards the centre 
of the body.” 

“From the nature of the wound would you say that 
the knife entered almost parallel with the ribs, though 
slanting slightly downwards, in order to pierce the heart 
on the right side ?” 

“That would be the general direction, though it is im- 
possible to ascertain, without a post-mortem examination, 
the exact spot where the heart was pierced.” 

“But the wound slants in such a way as to prove that 
the blow was struck from left to right?” persisted 
Colwyn. 

“Undoubtedly,” responded Sir Henry. 


CHAPTER V 


During the latter part of the conversation Superin- 
tendent Galloway walked to the open window, and looked 
out. He turned round swiftly, with a look of unusual 
animation on his heavy features, and exclaimed: 

“The murderer entered through the window/’ 

The others went over to the window. The inn on 
that side had been built into a small hill of beehive 
shape, which had been partly levelled to make way for 
the foundations. Seen from outside, the inn, with its 
back to the sea and a corner of its front entering the 
hillside, bore a remote resemblance to some nakedly ugly 
animal with its nose burrowed into the earth. Part of 
the bar was actually underground, and the windows of 
the rooms immediately above looked out on the hillside. 
The window of Mr. Glenthorpe’s room, which was above 
the bar parlour, was not more than four or five feet away 
from the round-shouldered side of the hill. From that 
point the hill fell away rapidly, and the first-story win- 
dows at the back, where the house rose from the flat 
edge of the marsh, were about fifteen feet from the 
ground. The space between the inn wall and the beehive 
curve of the hill, which was very narrow under Mr. 
Glenthorpe’s window, but widened as the hill fell away, 
was covered with a russet-coloured clay, which con- 
trasted vividly with the sombre grey and drab tints of 
the marshes. 

“It was an easy matter to get in this window,” said 
Superintendent Galloway. “And here’s the proof that 
the murderer came in this way.” He stooped and picked 
57 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


58 

up something from the floor, close to the window, and 
held it out in the palm of his hand for the inspection of 
his companions. It was a small piece of red clay, like 
the russet-coloured clay outside the window. 

“Here is another clue/’ said Colwyn, pointing to a 
fragment of black material adhering to a nail near the 
bottom of the window. 

“Ronald ripped something he was wearing while get- 
ting through the window,” said Galloway, detaching the 
fragment, which he and Colwyn examined closely. 

“Have you noticed that?” said Colwyn, pointing to a 
pool of water which had collected near the open window, 
between the edge of the carpet and the skirting board. 

“Yes,” replied Galloway. “It was raining heavily last 
night.” 

With eyes sharpened by his discoveries, Galloway 
made a careful search of the carpet, and found several 
more crumbs of red clay between the window and the 
bed. Near the bed he detected some splashes of candle- 
grease, which he detached from the carpet with his 
pocket-knife. He also picked up the stump of a burnt 
wooden match, and the broken unlighted head of another. 
After showing these things to his companions he placed 
them carefully in an empty match-box, which he put in 
his pocket. 

“Somebody has bumped against this gas globe pretty 
hard,” said Colwyn. “The glass is broken and the in- 
candescent burner smashed.” 

He bent down to examine the white fragments of the 
burner which were scattered about the carpet, and as he 
did so he noticed another broken wooden match, and 
two more splashes of candle-grease directly beneath the 
gas-jet. He removed the candle-grease carefully, and 
showed it to Galloway. 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


59 


“More candle-grease!” the latter said. “Well, that’s 
not likely to prove anything except that Ronald was care- 
less with his light. I suppose the wind caused the can- 
dle to gutter. I would willingly exchange the candle- 
grease for some finger-prints. There’s not a sign of 
finger-prints anywhere. Ronald must have worn gloves. 
Now, let us have a look at Ronald’s room. I want to see 
if he could get out of his own window on to the hillside. 
His window is higher from the ground than this window. 
The hill falls away very sharply.” 

The bedroom Ronald had occupied was small and nar- 
row, and its meagre furniture was in striking contrast 
with the comfortable appointments of the room they had 
just left. It contained a single bed, a chest of drawers, a 
washstand, and a wardrobe. The latter, a cumbrous 
article of furniture, stood between the bed and the wall, 
against the side nearest to Mr. Glenthorpe’s room. 

Galloway strode across to the window, which was open, 
and looked out. The hillside fell away so rapidly that 
the bottom of the window was quite eight feet from the 
ground outside. 

“Not much of a drop for an athletic young fellow like 
Ronald,” said Galloway to Colwyn, who had joined him. 

“The window is very much smaller than the one in Mr. 
Glenthorpe’s bedroom,” said Colwyn. 

“But large enough for a man to get through. Look 
here! I can get my head and shoulders through, and 
where the head and shoulders go the rest of the body will 
follow. Ronald got through it last night and into the 
next room by the other window. There can be no doubt 
that that was how the murder was committed.” 

Galloway left the window, and examined the bedroom 
carefully. He turned down the bed-clothes, and scruti- 
nised the sheets and pillows. 


6o 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


“I thought he might have left some blood-stains on the 
linen, after carrying the body downstairs, 1 ” he explained. 
“But he hasn’t.” 

“Sir Henry says the bleeding was largely internal,” re- 
marked Mr. Cromering. “That would account for the 
absence of any tell-tale marks on the bed-clothes.” 

“He was too clever to wash his hands when he came 
back,” grumbled Galloway, turning to the washstand and 
examining the towels. “He’s a cool customer.” 

“I notice that the candle in the candlestick is a wax 
one,” said Colwyn. 

“And burnt more than half-way down,” commented 
Galloway, glancing at it. 

“You attach no significance to the fact that the candle 
is a wax one?” questioned the detective. 

“No, do you ?” replied Galloway, with a puzzled glance. 

Colwyn did not reply to the question. He was looking 
attentively at the large wardrobe by the side of the bed. 

“That’s a strange place to put a wardrobe,” he said. 
“It would be difficult to get out of bed without barking 
one’s shins against it.” 

“It was probably put there to hide the falling wall- 
paper, — the place is going to rack and ruin,” said Gal- 
loway, pointing to the top of the wardrobe, where the 
faded wall-paper, mildewed and wet with damp, was 
hanging in festoons. “Now, Queensmead, lead the way 
outside. I’ve seen all I want to see in this room.” 

“Would you like to see the room where Ronald and 
Mr. Glenthorpe dined?” suggested the constable. “It’s 
on this floor, on the other side of Mr. Glenthorpe’s bed- 
room.” 

“We can see that later. I want to examine outside 
before it gets dark.” 

They left the room. The innkeeper was waiting pa- 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


61 


tiently in the passage, standing motionless at the head of 
the staircase, with his head inclining forward, like a 
marsh heron fishing in a dyke. He hastened towards 
them. 

“I noticed a reading-lamp by Mr. Glenthorpe’s bedside, 
Mr. Benson,” said Colwyn. “Did he use that as well as 
the gas?” 

“He rarely used the gas, sir, though it was put into 
the room at his request. He found the reading-lamp 
suited his sight better.” 

“Did he use candles? I saw no candlestick in the 
room.” 

“He never used candles, sir — only the reading-lamp.” 

“When was the gas-globe smashed? Last night?” 

“It must have been, sir. Ann says it was quite all 
right yesterday.” 

“I’ve got my own idea how that was done,” said Gal- 
loway, who had been an attentive listener to the inn- 
keeper’s replies to Colwyn’s questions. “Show the way 
downstairs to the back door, Mr. Benson.” 

The innkeeper preceded them down the stairs and along 
the passage to another one, which terminated in a latched 
door, which he opened. 

“How was this door fastened last night?” asked Gal- 
loway. 

“By this bolt at the top,” said the innkeeper, pointing 
to it. “There is no key — only this catch.” 

“Is this the only back outlet from the inn?” asked 
Colwyn. 

“Yes, sir.” 

At Galloway’s suggestion they first went to the side of 
the inn, in order to examine the ground beneath the win- 
uows. The fence enclosing the yard had fallen into dis- 
repair, and had many gaps in it. There were no foot- 


62 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


prints visible in the red clay of the natural passage-way 
between the inn wall and the hill, either beneath the win- 
dow of Ronald’s room or Mr. Glenthorpe’s window. 

“The absence of footprints means nothing,” said Gal- 
loway. “Ronald may have climbed from one room to the 
other in his stocking feet, and then put on his boots to 
remove the body. Even if he wore his boots he might 
have left no marks, if he walked lightly.” 

“I am not so sure of that,” said Colwyn. “But what 
do you make of this ?” 

He pointed to an impression in the red earth under- 
neath Mr. Glenthorpe’s window — a line so faint as to be 
barely noticeable, running outward from the wall for 
about eighteen inches, with anothe‘r line about the same 
length running at right angles from it. Superintendent 
Galloway examined these two lines closely and then shook 
his head as though to intimate he could make nothing of 
them. 

“What do you think they are?” said Mr. Cromering, 
turning to Colwyn. 

“I think they may have been made by a box,” was the 
reply. 

“You are not suggesting that the murderer threw a 
box out of the window?” exclaimed Superintendent 
Galloway, staring at the detective. “Look how straight 
the line from the wall is! A box would have fallen 
crookedly.” 

“I do not suggest anything of the kind. If it was a 
box, it is more likely it was placed outside the window.” 

“For what purpose ?” 

“To help the murderer climb into the room.” 

“He didn’t need it,” replied Galloway. “It’s an easy 
matter to get through this window from the ground. I 
can do it myself.” He placed his hands on the sill. 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


63 

sprang on to the window ledge, and dropped back again. 
“I attach no importance to these lines. They are so faint 
that they might have been made months ago. There is 
nothing to be seen here, so we may as well go and look 
at the footprints. Show us where the marks of the foot- 
steps commence, Queensmead. ,, 

The constable led the way to the other side of the house 
and across the green. The grass terminated a little dis- 
tance from the inn in a clay bank bordering a wide tract 
of bare and sterile land, which extended almost to the 
summit of the rise. Clearly defined in the clay and the 
black soft earth were two sets of footprints, one going 
towards the rise, and the other returning. The outgoing 
footsteps were deeply and distinctly outlined from heel 
to toe. The right foot plainly showed the circular mark 
of a rubber heel, which was missing in the other, though 
a sharp indentation showed the mark of the spike to 
which the rubber had been fastened. 

“The footprints lead straight to the mouth of the pit 
where the body was thrown,” said Queensmead. 

“What a clue!” exclaimed Superintendent Galloway, 
his eyes sparkling with excitement. “You are quite cer- 
tain the inn servant can swear that these marks were 
made by Ronald’s boots, Queensmead ?” 

“There’s no doubt on that point, sir,” replied the con- 
stable. “She had the boots in her hands this morning, 
just before Ronald put them on, and she distinctly noticed 
that there was a rubber heel on the right boot, but not on 
the other.” 

“It seems a strange thing for a young man of Ronald’s 
position to have rubber heels affixed to his boots,” re- 
marked Mr. Cromering. “I was under the impression 
that they were an economical device of the working 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


64 

classes. But perhaps he found them useful to save his 
feet from jarring.” 

“We shall find them useful to hang him,” responded 
Galloway curtly. “Let us proceed to the pit, gentlemen. 
May I ask you to keep clear of the footprints? I do 
not want them obliterated before I can take plaster 
casts.” 

They followed the footsteps up the rise. Near the 
summit they disappeared in a growth of nettles, but re- 
appeared on the other side, skirting a number of bowl- 
shaped depressions clustered in groups along the brow 
of the rise. These were the hut circles — the pit dwellings 
of the early Britons, shallow excavations from six to 
eight feet deep, all running into one another, and choked 
with a rank growth of weeds. Between them and a little 
wood which covered the rest of the summit was an open 
space, with a hole gaping nakedly in the bare earth. 

“That’s the pit where the body was thrown,” said 
Queensmead, walking to the brink. 

The pit descended straight as a mining shaft until the 
sides disappeared in the interior gloom. It was impos- 
sible to guess at its depth because of the tangled creepers 
which lined its sides and obscured the view, but Mr. 
Cromering, speaking from his extensive knowledge of 
Norfolk geology, said it was fully thirty feet deep. He 
added that there was considerable difference of opinion 
among antiquaries to account for its greater depth. 
Some believed the pit was simply a larger specimen of 
the adjoining hut circles, running into a natural under- 
ground passage which had previously existed. But the 
more generally accepted theory was that the hut circles 
marked the site of a prehistoric village, and the deeper 
pit had been the quarry from which the Neolithic men 
had obtained the flints of which they made their imple- 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


65 

ments. These flints were imbedded in the chalk a long 
way from the surface, and to obtain them the cave men 
burrowed deeply into the clay, and then excavated hori- 
zontal galleries into the chalk. Several of the red-deer 
antler picks which they used for the purpose had been 
discovered when the pit was first explored twenty-five 
years ago. 

“Mr. Glenthorpe was very much interested in the pre- 
historic and late Stone Age remains which are to be 
found in abundance along the Norfolk coast,” he added. 
“He has enriched the national museums with a valuable 
collection of prehistoric man's implements and utensils, 
which he recovered in various parts of Norfolk. For 
some time past he had been carrying out explorations in 
this district in order to add to the collection. It is sad 
to think that he met his death while thus employed, and 
that his murdered body was thrown in the very pit which 
was, as it were, the centre of his explorations and the 
object of his keenest scientific curiosity.” 

“Did you ever see clearer footprints?” exclaimed the 
more practical-minded Galloway. “Look how deep they 
are near the edge of the pit, where the murderer braced 
himself to throw the body off his back into the hole. 
See ! there is a spot of blood on the edge.” 

It was as he had said. The footprints were clear and 
distinct to the brink of the pit, but fainter as they turned 
away, showing that the man who had carried the body 
had stepped more lightly and easily after relieving him- 
self of his terrible burden. 

“I must take plaster casts of those prints before it 
rains,” said Galloway. “They are far too valuable a 
piece of evidence to be lost. They form the final link 
in the case against Ronald.” 


66 THE SHRIEKING PIT 

“You regard the case as conclusive, then?’* said 
Colwyn. 

“Of course I do. It is now a simple matter to recon- 
struct the crime from beginning to end. Ronald got 
through Mr. Glenthorpe’s window last night in the dark. 
As the catch has not been forced, he either found it un- 
locked or opened it with a knife. After getting into the 
room he walked towards the foot of the bed. He listened 
to make sure that Mr. Glenthorpe was asleep, and then 
struck the match I picked up near the foot of the bed, lit 
the candle he was carrying, put it on the table beside the 
bed, and stabbed the sleeping man. Having secured the 
money, he unlocked the door, carried the corpse out on 
his shoulder, closed the door behind him but did not lock 
it, then took the body downstairs, let himself out of the 
back door, carried it up here and cast it into the pit. 
That's how the murder was committed." 

“I agree with you that the murderer entered through 
the window," said Colwyn. “But why did he do so ? It 
strikes me as important to clear that up. If Ronald is 
the murderer, why did he take the trouble to enter the 
room from the outside when he slept in the next room ?" 

“Surely you have not forgotten that the door was 
locked from inside? Benson says Mr. Glenthorpe 
was in the habit of locking his door and sleeping with the 
key under the pillow. Ronald no doubt first tried to 
enter the room by the door, but, finding it locked, climbed 
out of his window, and got into the room through the 
other window. He dared not break open the door for 
fear of disturbing the inmate or alarming the house." 

“Then how do you account for the key being found 
in the outside of Mr. Glenthorpe's door this morning?" 

“Quite easily. During the struggle or in the victim's 
death convulsions the bed-clothes were disarranged, and 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


67 

Ronald saw the key beneath the pillow. Or he may have 
searched for it, as he knew he would need it before he 
could open the door and remove the body. It was easy 
for him to climb through the window to commit the mur- 
der, but he couldn’t remove the body that way. After 
finding the key he unlocked the door, and put the key 
in the outside, intending to lock the door and remove the 
key as he left the room, so as to defer the discovery that 
Mr. Glenthorpe was missing until as long after his own 
departure in the morning as possible. He may have 
found it a difficult matter to stoop and lock the door 
and withdraw the key while he was encumbered with the 
corpse, so left it in the door till he returned from the pit. 
When he returned he was so exhausted with carrying the 
body several hundred yards, mostly uphill, that he for- 
got all about the key. That is my theory to account for 
the key being in the outside of the door.” 

“It’s an ingenious one, at all events,” commented Col- 
wyn. “But would such a careful deliberate murderer 
overlook the key when he returned?” 

“Nothing more likely,” said the confident superinten- 
dent. “It’s in trifles like this that murderers give them- 
selves away. The notorious Deeming, who murdered 
several wives, and disposed of their bodies by burying 
them under hearthstones and covering them with cement, 
would probably never have been caught if he had not 
taken away with him a canary which belonged to the last 
woman he murdered. It was a clue that couldn’t be 
missed — like the silk skein in Fair Rosamond’s Bower.” 

“Here’s another point : why did not Ronald, having dis- 
posed of the body, disappear at once, instead of waiting 
for the morning?” 

“Because if his room had been found empty in the 
morning, as well as that of Mr. Glenthorpe’s, the double 


68 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


disappearance would have aroused instant suspicion and 
search. Ronald gauged the moment of his departure 
very cleverly, in my opinion. On the one hand, he 
wanted to get away before the discovery of Mr. Glen- 
thorpe’s empty bedroom; and, on the other hand, he 
wished to stay at the inn long enough to suggest that he 
had no reason for flight, but was merely compelled to 
make an early departure. The trouble and risk he took 
to conceal the body outside prove conclusively that he 
thought the pit a sufficiently safe hiding-place to retard 
discovery of the crime for a considerable time, and he 
probably thought that even when it was discovered that 
Mr. Glenthorpe was missing his absence would not, at 
first, arouse suspicions that he had met with foul play. 

“It was not as though Mr. Glenthorpe was living at 
home with relatives who would have immediately raised 
a hue and cry. He was a lonely old man living in an 
inn amongst strangers, who were not likely to be inter- 
ested in his goings and comings. That suggests another 
alternative theory to account for the key in the door: 
Ronald may have left it in the door to convey the im- 
pression that Mr. Glenthorpe had gone out for an early 
walk. That belief would at least gain Ronald a few 
hours to make good his escape from this part of the coun- 
try and get away by train before any suspicions were 
aroused. The fact that none of Mr. Glenthorpe’s clothes 
were missing was not likely to be discovered in an inn 
until suspicion was aroused. Ronald laid his plans well, 
but how was he to know that in his path to the pit he 
walked over soil as plastic and impressionable as wax ?” 

“But in spite of that you assume he knew exactly where 
this pit was situated?” 

“Nothing more likely. It is well-known to archaeolo- 
gists. Ronald may well have heard of it while staying 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


69 


at Durrington, or he may have known of it personally 
through some previous visit to this part of the world. 
And there is also evidence that Mr. Glenthorpe told him 
of the hut circles and the pit during dinner last night.” 

“Just one more doubt, Superintendent. How do you 
account for the cracked gas globe and the broken incan- 
descent mantle?” 

“Ronald probably knocked his head against it as he ap- 
proached the bed,” said Galloway promptly. 

“Hardly. Ronald’s height, according to the descrip- 
tion, is five feet eleven inches. That happens to be also 
my height, and I can pass under the gas globe without 
touching it.” 

“Then it was broken when Ronald was carrying the 
corpse downstairs,” replied Galloway, after a moment’s 
reflection. “He carried the corpse on his shoulders and 
part of the body would be above his head.” 

“Superintendent Galloway has an answer for every- 
thing,” said Colwyn with a smile, to Mr. Cromering. 
“He is persuasive if not always convincing.” 

“The case seems clear enough to me,” said the chief 
constable thoughtfully. “Come, gentlemen, let us return 
to the inn. We have a number of things to do, and not 
much time to do them in.” 


CHAPTER VI 


The inn, seen in the greyer evening of a grey day, had 
a stark and sinister aspect, an atmosphere of mystery and 
secretiveness, an air of solitary aloofness in the dreary 
marshes, standing half shrouded in the night mists which 
were sluggishly crawling across the oozing flats from the 
sea. It was not a place where people could be happy — 
this battered abode of a past age- on the edge of the 
North Sea, with the bitter waters of the marshes lapping 
its foundations, and the cold winds for ever wailing 
round its gaunt white walls. 

The portion buried in the hillside, with only the tops 
of the windows peering above, suggested the hidden holes 
and burrowing byways of a dead and gone generation of 
smugglers who had used the inn in the heyday of Nor- 
folk’s sea prosperity. It may have been a thought of the 
possibilities of the inn as a hiding place which prompted 
Mr. Cromering to exclaim, after gazing at it attentively 
for some seconds : 

“We had better go through this place from the bottom/’ 

As they approached the inn a stout short man, who was 
looking out from the low and narrow doorway, retreated 
into the interior, and immediately afterwards the long 
figure of the innkeeper emerged as though he had been 
awaiting the return of the party, and had posted some- 
body to watch for them. 

The innkeeper showed no surprise on receiving Mr. 
Cromering’s instruction to show them over the inn. 
Walking before them he led them along a side passage 
70 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


7 1 


opposite the bar, opening doors as he went, and drawing 
aside for them to enter and look at the rooms thus 
revealed. 

It was a strange rambling old place inside, full of nooks 
and crannies, and unexpected odd corners and apertures, 
short galleries and stone passages winding everywhere 
and leading nowhere ; the downstairs rooms on different 
levels, with stone steps into them, and queer slits of win- 
dows pierced high up in the thick walls. On the ground 
floor a central passage divided the inn into two portions. 
On the one side were several rooms, some empty and 
destitute of furniture, others barely furnished and empty, 
and a big gloomy kitchen in which a stout country- 
woman, who shook and bobbed at the sight of the visitors, 
was washing greens at a dirty deal table. Off the kitchen 
were two small rooms, poorly furnished as servants’ bed- 
rooms, and the windows of these looked out on the 
marshes at the back of the house. On the other side of 
the centre passage was the bar, which was subterranean 
at the far end, with the cellar adjoining tunnelled into 
the hillside. In the recesses of the cellar the short stout 
man they had seen at the doorway was, by the light of 
a tallow candle, affixing a spigot to one of the barrels 
which stood against the earthen wall. Behind the bar 
was a small bar parlour, and behind that two more rooms, 
the house on that side finishing in a low and narrow gal- 
lery running parallel with the outside wall. 

The staircase upstairs opened into a stone passage, 
running from the front of the inn to the back. On the 
left-hand side of the passage, going from the head of the 
stairs to the back of the house, were four rooms. The 
first was a small, comfortably furnished sitting room, 
where Mr. Glenthorpe and his guest had dined the pre- 
vious night. The bed chamber of the murdered man ad- 


72 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


joined this room. Next came the. room in which Ronald 
had slept, and then an empty lumber room. There were 
four bedrooms on the other side, all unfurnished, except 
one at the far end of the passage, the lumber-room. The 
innkeeper explained that the murdered man had been the 
sole occupant of that wing of the house until the previous 
night, when Mr. Ronald had occupied the room next to 
him. At this end of the passage another and narrower 
passage ran at right angles along the back of the 
house, with several rooms opening off it on one side only. 
The first of these rooms was empty; the next room con- 
tained a small iron bedstead, a chair, and a table, and the 
innkeeper said that it was his bedroom. At the next door 
he paused, and turning to Mr. Cromering hesitatingly re- 
marked : 

“This is my mother’s room, sir. She is an invalid.” 

“We will not disturb your mother, we will merely 
glance into the room,” said the kindly chief constable. 

“It is not that, sir. She is ” He broke off abruptly, 

and knocked at the door. 

After a few moments’ pause there was the sound of 
somebody within turning a key in the lock, then the door 
was opened by a young girl, who, at the sight of the vis- 
itors, walked hurriedly across to a bedstead at the far 
end of the room, on which something grey was moving, 
and stood in front of it as though she would guard the 
occupant of the bed from the intruding eyes of strangers. 

“It’s, all right, Peggy,” said the innkeeper. “We shall 
not be here long. My daughter is afraid you will disturb 
her grandmother,” he said turning tq the gentlemen. “My 
mother is ” A motion of his finger towards his fore- 

head completed the sentence more significantly than 
words. 

The figure on the bed in the corner was in the shadow, 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


73 

but they could make it out to be that of an old and 
shrivelled woman in a grey flannel nightdress, who was 
sitting up in bed, swinging backward and forward, hold- 
ing some object in her arms, clasped tightly to her breast, 
while her small dark eyes, deepset under furrowed brows, 
gazed at the visitors with the unmeaning stare of an 
animal. 

But Colwyn’s eyes were drawn to the girl at the bed- 
side. She was beautiful, of a type sufficiently rare to 
attract attention anywhere. Her delicate profile and 
dainty grace shone in the shadow of the sordid room like 
an exquisite picture. He was aware of a skin of trans- 
parent whiteness, a wistful sensitive mouth, a pair of 
wonderful eyes with the green-grey colour of the sea in 
their depths, and a crown of red-gold hair. She was 
poorly, almost shabbily, dressed, but the crude cheap 
garbing of a country dressmaker was unable to mar the 
graceful outlines of her slim young figure. But it was the 
impassivity of the face and detachment of attitude which 
chained Colwyn’s attention and stimulated his intellectual 
curiosity. The human face is usually an index to the 
owner’s character, but this girl’s face was a mask which 
revealed nothing. The features might have been marble 
for anything they displayed, as she stood by the bedside 
regarding with grave inscrutable eyes the group of men 
in the doorway. There was something pathetic in the 
contrast between her grace and beauty and stillness and 
the uncouth gestures and meaningless stare of the old 
woman in the bed behind her. 

The old woman, moving from side to side with the un- 
happy restlessness which characterises the insane, 
dropped over the side of the bed the object she had been 
nursing in her arms, and looked at the girl with the dumb 
entreaty of an animal. The girl stooped down by the side 


74 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


of the bed, picked up the fallen article, and restored it to 
the mad woman. It was a doll. 

Mr. Cromering, who saw the action and the article, 
flushed like a man who had seen something which should 
be kept secret, and turned to leave the room. The others 
followed, and immediately afterwards they heard the 
door closed after them, and the key turned in the lock. 

Superintendent Galloway, who had more of the inquir- 
ing turn of mind of the police official than the chief con- 
stable, asked the innkeeper several questions about his 
mother and her condition. The innkeeper said her in- 
sanity was the outcome of an accident which had hap- 
pened two years before. She was sitting dozing by the 
kitchen fire when a large boiler of water overturned, 
scalding her terribly, and the shock and pain had sent her 
mad. She had never left the bedroom since, and had 
gradually become reduced to a condition of imbecility, 
alternated by occasional outbursts of violence. 

“Is she ever allowed out of the room?” asked Super- 
intendent Galloway quickly, as though a sudden thought 
had struck him. 

“Never, sir; she never tries to get out of bed except 
when she’s violent. She will sit there for hours, playing 
with a doll, but when she has her paroxysms she runs 
round and round the room, crying out as you heard her 
just now, and throwing the things about. Did you notice, 
sir, that there was no glassware in the room ? She would 
do herself a mischief with them when her violent fits 
come on.” 

“How often does she have paroxysms of violent mad- 
ness?” asked the chief constable. 

“Not often, sir; usually about the turn of the moon, or 
when there is a gale at sea.” 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


75 

“There was a gale at sea last night,” said Colwyn. 
“Did your mother have an attack then ?” 

“Peggy said when she came downstairs last night she 
thought there were signs of an attack coming on, but 
when I looked in on Mother as I was going to bed, shortly 
before eleven, she seemed quiet enough, so I locked her 
door and went to bed.” 

“Do you mean to say that you leave this poor mad 
woman in her bedroom all night alone?” asked the chief 
constable. 

“It’s the best thing to be done, sir,” replied the inn- 
keeper, with an apologetic air. “We tried having some- 
body to sleep with her, but it only made her worse, and 
the doctor who saw her last year said it wasn’t necessary. 
Peggy is with her a lot in the daytime, and often until 
she goes to bed. So she’s really not left alone very much, 
because Ann goes into her room as soon as she gets up 
in the morning — about six o’clock.” 

“And is your mother always secured in her room — is 
the door always locked ?” asked Superintendent Galloway. 

“Yes, sir: the door is always locked inside or outside, 
and when I go to bed at night I take the key into my 
room and hang it on a nail. Ann comes in and gets it 
in the morning.” 

“You did that last night, as usual?” 

“Yes, sir. Mother was quiet — just as you saw her 
now. She is quiet most of the time.” 

“God help her, poor soul!” exclaimed the chief con- 
stable. “Where does this passage lead to, Benson?” he 
asked, as if to change the conversation, pointing to a 
gloomy gallery running off the passage in which they 
were standing. 

“It leads to two rooms looking out over the end of the 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


76 

inn, sir,” replied the innkeeper. “They are the only two 
rooms you haven’t seen.” 

“Who occupies this room?” asked Superintendent Gal- 
loway, opening the door of the first, and disclosing a 
small, plainly furnished bedroom. 

“My daughter, sir.” 

“The next one is empty and unfurnished, like many of 
the others,” observed the chief constable. “This place 
seems too big for you, Benson. Were all these rooms 
destitute of furniture when you took over the inn?” 

“Not all, sir, but the inn being too big for me I sold 
the furniture for what it would fetch. It was no use 
to me.” 

“Why don’t you take a smaller place ?” asked Superin- 
tendent Galloway, abruptly. “You’ll never do any good 
on this part of the coast — it’s played out, and there’s no 
population.” 

“I’m well aware of that, sir, but it’s difficult for a man 
like me to make a shift once he gets into a place. There’s 
Mother for one thing.” 

“She ought to be placed in a lunatic asylum,” said the 
superintendent, looking sternly at the innkeeper. 

“It’s a hard thing, sir, to put your own mother away. 
Besides, begging your pardon, she’s hardly bad enough 
for a lunatic asylum.” 

“Let us go downstairs, Galloway, if we have seen the 
whole of the inn,” said the chief constable, breaking into 
this colloquy. “Time is really getting on.” 

They went downstairs again to the small room they had 
been shown into when they first entered the inn, Mr. 
Cromering after despatching the innkeeper for refresh- 
ments for the party glanced once more at his watch, and 
remarked to Colwyn that he was afraid he would have 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 77 

to ask him to drive him in his car back to Durrington 
without delay. 

“Galloway will stay here for the inquest to-morrow,” 
he added. “But I must get back to Norwich to-night.” 

“It is not necessary to go back to Durrington, to get 
to Norwich,” said Colwyn ; “there’s a train passes through 
Heathfield on the branch line, at 5.40.” He consulted his 
own watch as he spoke. “It’s now just four o’clock. 
Heathfield cannot be more than six miles away across 
country. I can run you over there in twenty minutes. 
That would give you an hour or so more here. I am 
speaking for myself as well as you,” he added, with a 
smile. “I should like to know a little more about this 
case.” 

“But I shall be taking you out of your way, and delay- 
ing the return of you and Sir Henry to Durrington.” 

“I should like to return here and stay until after the 
inquest. Perhaps Sir Henry would not mind returning 
to Durrington from Heathfield. He will be able to catch 
the Durrington train at Cottenden, and get back to his 
hotel in time for dinner. Would you mind, Sir Henry?” 

“Not in the least,” replied Sir Henry politely. 

“Then I think I might stay a little longer,” said the 
chief constable. “What’s the road like to Heathfield, 
Galloway? You know something about this part of the 
country.” 

“Very bad,” replied the superintendent uncompromis- 
ingly, who had his own reasons for wanting to get rid of 
his superior officer and the detective. 

“It will be all right in daylight, and I’ll risk it coming 
back,” said the detective cheerfully. 

He spoke with the resolute air of one used to making 
prompt decisions, and Mr. Cromering yielded with the 
feeble smile of a man who was rather glad to be released 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


78 

of the task of making up his own mind. The entrance 
of the innkeeper with refreshments put an end to the 
discussion. He thrust upon the police officials present 
the responsibility of breaking the licensed hours in which 
liquor might be drunk in war time by serving them with 
sherry, old brandy, and biscuits. 

The chief constable made himself a party to this 
breach of the law by helping himself to a glass of sherry. 
The wine was excellent and dry, and he poured himself 
out another. The result of this stimulant was directly 
apparent in the firm tones with which he announced his 
intention of examining those inmates of the inn who 
could throw any light on the murder of the previous 
night. He directed Superintendent Galloway to sit be- 
side him and take notes of the information thus elicited 
for the use of the coroner the following day. 

“I think it would be as well to begin with the story of 
the innkeeper,” he added. “Please pull that bell-rope, 
Galloway.” 


CHAPTER VII 


The innkeeper answered the bell in person, and was 
ordered by the chief constable to take a seat and tell 
everything he knew about the previous night’s events, 
without equivocation or reserve. He took a chair at the 
table, his bright bird’s glance wandering from one to the 
other of the faces opposite him as he smoothed with one 
claw-like hand the thatch of iron-grey hair which hung 
down over his forehead almost to his eyes. 

'‘Where shall I begin?” he asked. 

“You had better start by telling us how this young man 
Ronald came to your house yesterday afternoon, and then 
give us an account of the subsequent events, so far as 
you know them,” said the chief constable. 

“I was down near the breakwater yesterday evening, 
setting some eel-lines in the canal, when he arrived,” com- 
menced the innkeeper. “When I came in, Charles — that’s 
the waiter — told me there was a young gentleman in the 
bar parlour waiting to see me. I went into the parlour, 
and saw the young man sitting near the door. He looked 
very tired and weary, and said he wished to stay at the 
inn for the night.” 

“How was he dressed?” asked Superintendent Gallo- 
way, looking up from his note-book. 

“In a grey Norfolk suit, with knickerbockers, and a 
soft felt hat. 

“Had you ever seen him before?” 

“No, sir. He was a complete stranger to me. I could 
see he was a gentleman. I told him I could not take 
79 


8o 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


him in, as the inn was only a poor rough place, with no 
accommodation for gentlefolk at the best of times, let 
alone war-time. The young gentleman said he was very 
tired and would sleep anywhere, and was not particular 
about food. He told me he had lost his way on the 
marshes, and a fisherman had directed him to the inn.” 

‘‘Did he say where he had come from?” asked the chief 
constable. 

“No, sir, and I didn’t think to ask him. I might have 
done so, but Mr. Glenthorpe walked into the parlour just 
then, carrying some partridges in his hand. He didn’t 
see the young gentleman at first — he was sitting in the 
corner behind the door — but told me to have one of the 
partridges cooked for his dinner. They had just been 
given to him, he said, by the farmer whose land he was 
going to excavate next week. As he turned to go out 
he saw the young gentleman sitting in the corner, and he 
said, in his hearty way : ‘Good evening, sir ; it is not often 
that we have any society in these parts.’ The young 
gentleman told him what he had told me — how he had 
wandered away from Durrington and got lost, and had 
come to the inn in the hopes of getting a bed for the 
night. ‘Glad to see a civilised human being in these 
parts/ said Mr. Glenthorpe. ‘I hope you’ll give me the 
pleasure of your company at dinner. Benson, tell Ann 
to cook another partridge.’ ‘I don’t know whether the 
innkeeper will allow me that pleasure,’ replied the young 
gentleman. ‘He says he cannot put me up for the night.’ 
‘Of course he’ll put you up,’ said Mr. Glenthorpe. ‘Not 
even a Norfolk innkeeper would turn you out on to the 
North Sea marshes at this time of year.’ That settled 
the question, because I couldn’t afford to offend Mr. Glen- 
thorpe, and besides, his providing the dinner helped me 
out of a difficulty. So I went out to give orders about 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 81 

the dinner, leaving Mr. Glenthorpe and him sitting to- 
gether talking/’ 

“Did you get him to fill in a registration form?” asked 
Superintendent Galloway. 

“I forgot to ask him, sir,” replied the innkeeper. 

“That is gross and inexcusable carelessness on your 
part, Benson,” said Galloway sternly. “I shall have to 
report it.” 

“I do not understand much about these things, sir,” re- 
plied the innkeeper apologetically. “It is so rarely that 
we have a visitor to the place.” 

“The authorities will hold you responsible. You are 
supposed to know the law, and help to carry it out. 
What’s the use of devising regulations for the security of 
the country if they are not carried out? You innkeepers 
and hotelkeepers are really very careless. Go on with 
your story, Benson.” 

“He and Mr. Glenthorpe had dinner together in the 
little upstairs sitting room which Mr. Glenthorpe kept 
for his own private use. He did his writing in it, and 
the flints and fossils he discovered in his excavations were 
stored in the cupboards. His meals were always taken 
up there, and last night he ordered the dinner to be 
taken up there as usual, and the table to be laid for two. 
Charles waited at table, but I was up there twice — 
first time with some sherry, and the second time was 
about an hour afterwards, when the gentlemen had fin- 
ished dinner. I took up a bottle of some old brandy that 
the inn used to be famous for — it’s the same that you 
gentlemen have been drinking. When I knocked at the 
door with the brandy it was Mr. Glenthorpe who called 
'Come in!’ He was standing in front of the fire, with 
a fossil in his hand, and he was telling the young man 


8 2 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


about how he came to discover it. I put the brandy on 
the table and left the room. 

“That was the last time I saw him alive. Charles came 
down with the dinner things about half-past nine, and 
said he was not wanted upstairs any more. Charles went 
to bed shortly afterwards — he sleeps in one of the two 
rooms off the kitchen. I went to my own bedroom before 
ten, after first telling Ann, the servant, who was doing 
some ironing in the kitchen, to turn off the gas at the 
meter if the gentlemen retired before she finished, but 
not to bother if they were still sitting up. It had been 
decided that the young gentleman should occupy the bed- 
room next to Mr. Glenthorpe, and Ann was a bit late 
with her ordinary work because it had taken her some 
time to get his room ready. The room had not been 
occupied for some time, and she’d had to air the bed- 
clothes and make the bed afresh. 

“The next morning I was a bit late getting down — 
there’s nothing to open the inn for in the mornings — and 
Ann told me as soon as I got down that the young gen- 
tleman had left nearly an hour before. She had taken 
him up an early cup of tea at seven o’clock, and he opened 
the door to her knock, and took it from her. He was 
fully dressed, except for his boots, which he had in his 
hand, and he asked her to clean them, as he wanted to 
leave at once. She was walking away with the boots, 
when he called her back and took them from her, saying 
that it didn’t matter about cleaning them, as he was in a 
hurry. When she gave him the boots he put a note into 
her hand, and said that was to pay for his bill. 

“It was the key in the outside of Mr. Glenthorpe’s room 
which led to us finding out that he was not in the room. 
As I told you upstairs, sir, he used to always lock his 
door when he went to bed and put the key under the 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


83 

pillow. Ann noticed the key in the outside of the door 
when she went up with his breakfast tray — he never took 
early morning tea but he always breakfasted in his room. 
That would be about eight o’clock. She thought it 
strange to see the key in the door, and as she could get 
no answer to her knock she tried the door, found it un- 
locked and the room empty. She came downstairs and 
told me. I thought at first that Mr. Glenthorpe might 
have got up early to go and look at his excavations, but 
I went up to his room and saw the signs of a struggle 
and bloodstains on the bed-clothes, and I knew that some- 
thing must have happened to him. I went into the village 
and told Constable Queensmead. He came to the inn, 
and made a search inside and outside and found the foot- 
prints leading to the pit on the rise. One of Mr. Glen- 
thorpe’s men who had been down the pit for flints was 
lowered by a rope, and brought up the body.” 

The innkeeper took a leather wallet from his pocket and 
produced from it a Treasury note. “This is the note the 
young gentleman left behind with Ann to pay his biH,” 
he explained, pushing it across the table to the chief con- 
stable. 

“I would draw your attention, sir, to the fact that this 
Treasury note is one of the first issue — printed in black 
on white paper,” remarked Superintendent Galloway to 
his superior officer. “Constable Queensmead has ascer- 
tained that the £300 which Mr. Glenthorpe drew out of 
the bank yesterday was all in £1 notes of the first issue. 
That money is missing from the dead man’s effects.” 

The chief constable looked thoughtfully at the note 
through his glasses, and then passed it to Colwyn, who 
examined it closely, and took a note of the number, and 
held it up to the light to see the watermark. 


84 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


“Did you or the servant find any weapon in Mr. Glen- 
thorpe’s room ?” asked the chief constable. 

“No, sir.” 

“You have missed a knife though, have you not?” asked 
Superintendent Galloway. 

“Yes, sir.” 

'What sort of a knife?” 

'A table-knife.” 

“Was it one of the knives sent up to the sitting-room 
last night?” 

“Yes, sir. At least Charles says so. He has charge 
of the cutlery.” 

“Then Charles had better tell us about it,” interposed 
the chief constable. “You say you went to bed before 
ten o’clock, Benson. Did you hear anything in the 
night ?” 

“No, sir, I fell asleep almost immediately. My room is 
a good distance from Mr. Glenthorpe’s room.” 

“I do not think we have any more questions to ask 
you, Benson.” 

“Pardon the curiosity of a medical man, Mr. Cromer- 
ing,” remarked Sir Henry, “but would it be possible to 
ask the innkeeper whether he noticed anything peculiar 
about Mr. Ronald’s demeanour, when he arrived at the 
inn, or when he saw him at dinner subsequently?” 

“You hear that question, Benson?” said the chief con- 
stable. “Did you notice anything strange about Mr. Ron- 
ald’s conduct when first he came to the inn or at any 
time ?” 

“I cannot say I did, sir. I thought he looked very tired 
when he first came into the inn, and his eyes were heavy 
as though with want of sleep.” 

“He seemed quite sane and rational?” 

“Quite, sir.” 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


85 

“Did you notice any symptoms of. mental disturbance 
or irritability about him at any time ?” struck in Sir Henry 
Durwood. 

“No, sir. He was a little bit angry at first when I 
said I couldn’t take him in, but he struck me as quite cool 
and collected.” 

Sir Henry looked a little disappointed at this reply. 
He asked no more questions, but entered a note in a small 
note-book which he took from a waistcoat pocket. Mr. 
Cromering intimated to the innkeeper that he had fin- 
ished questioning him, and would like to examine the 
waiter, Charles. 

“If you wouldn’t mind pulling the bell-rope behind 
you, sir,” hinted the innkeeper. 

In response to a pull at the old-fashioned bell-rope, the 
stout country servant, who had been washing greens in 
the kitchen, entered the room. 

“Where is Charles, Ann?” asked the innkeeper. 

“He’s in the kitchen with me,” replied the woman 
nervously. 

“Then tell him he is wanted here immediately.” 

“You run your inn in a queer sort of way, Benson,” 
remarked Superintendent Galloway, in his loud voice, as 
the woman went away on her errand. “Why couldn’t 
Charles have answered the bell himself, if he is in the 
kitchen? What does he wait on, if not the bar par- 
lour ?” 

“Charles is stone deaf, sir,” replied the innkeeper. 


CHAPTER VIII 


The man who entered the room was of sufficiently re- 
markable appearance to have attracted attention any- 
where. He was short, but so fat that he looked less than 
his actual height, which was barely five feet. His pon- 
derous head, which was covered with short stiff black 
hair, like a brush, seemed to merge into his body without 
any neck, and two black eyes glittered like diamond 
points in the white expanse of his hairless face. As he 
advanced towards the table these eyes roved quickly 
from one to the other of the faces on the other side of 
the table. He was in every way a remarkable contrast 
to his employer, and a painter in search of a subject 
might have been tempted to take the pair as models for 
a picture of Don Quixote and Sancho Panza. 

“Take that chair and answer my questions,” said Mr. 
Cromering, addressing the waiter in a very loud voice. 
“Oh, I forgot,” he added, to the innkeeper. “How do you 
manage to communicate with him if he is stone deaf?” 

“Quite easily, sir. Charles understands the lip lan- 
guage — he reads your lips while you speak. It is not 
even necessary to raise your voice, so long as you pro- 
nounce each word distinctly.” 

“Sit down, Charles — do you understand me?” said 
the chief constable doubtfully. By way of helping the 
waiter to comprehend he pointed to the chair the inn- 
keeper had vacated. 

The waiter crossed the room and took the chair. Like 
so many fat men, his movements were quick, agile, and 
86 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


87 

noiseless, but as he came forward it was noticeable that 
his right arm was deformed, and much shorter than the 
other. 

The chief constable eyed the strange figure before him 
in some perplexity, and the fat white-faced deaf man 
confronted him stolidly, with his black twinkling eyes 
fixed on his face. His gaze, which was directed to the 
mouth and did not reach the eyes, was so disconcerting 
to Mr. Cromering that he cleared his throat with several 
nervous “hems” before commencing his examination : 

“Your name is ?” 

“Charles Lynn, sir.” 

The reply was delivered in a whispered voice, the not 
infrequent result of prolonged deafness, complete iso- 
lation from the rest of humanity causing the gradual loss 
of sound values in the afflicted person ; but the whisper, 
coming from such a mountain of flesh, conveyed the 
impression that the speaker's voice was half-strangled in 
layers of fat, and with difficulty gasped a way to the air. 
Mr. Cromering looked hard at the waiter as though sus- 
pecting him of some trick, but Charles' eyes were fixed 
on the mouth of his interrogator, awaiting his next ques- 
tion. 

“I understand that you waited on the two gentlemen 
in the upstairs sitting-room last night” — Mr. Cromering 
still spoke in such an unnecessarily loud voice that he 
grew red in the face with the exertion — “the gentleman 
who was murdered, and the young man Ronald, who 
came to the inn last night. Do you hear me?” 

“Yes, sir, I hear you. I waited on the gentlemen, sir.” 

“Very well. I want you to tell us all that took place 
between these gentlemen while you were in the room. 
You were there all through the dinner, I suppose?” 

“Yes, sir, but I didn’t hear all of the conversation be- 


88 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


cause of my infirmity.” He touched his ears as he 
spoke. “I heard some remarks of Mr. Glenthorpe’s, be- 
cause he told me to stand opposite him and watch his 
lips for orders, but I didn’t hear much of what the young 
gentleman said, because I was standing behind his chair 
most of the time so as to see Mr. Glenthorpe’s lips 
better.” 

“Well, tell us all you did gather of the conversation, 
and everything you saw.” 

“I beg your pardon, sir” — the interruption came from 
Superintendent Galloway — “but would it not be advis- 
able to get from the waiter first something of what 
passed between him and Ronald when Ronald came to 
the inn last night? The waiter was the first to see him, 
Benson says.” 

“Quite right. I had forgotten. Tell us, Charles, 
what passed when Ronald first came to the inn in the 
afternoon.” 

“It was between five and six o’clock, sir, when the 
young gentleman came to the front door and asked for 
the landlord. I told him he was out, but would be back 
shortly. The young gentleman said he was very tired, 
as he had walked a long distance and lost his way in the 
marshes, and would I show him into a private room and 
send him some refreshments. I took him into the bar 
parlour — this room, sir — and brought him refreshments. 
He seemed very tired — hardly able to lift one leg after 
the other.” 

“Did he look ill — or strange?” 

“I didn’t notice anything strange about him, sir, but 
he dropped into a chair as though he was exhausted, and 
told me to send the landlord to him as soon as he came 
in. I left him sitting there, and when Mr. Benson re- 
turned I told him, and he went in to him. I didn’t see 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 89 

the young gentleman again until I waited on him and Mr. 
Glenthorpe at dinner in the upstairs sitting-room.” 

'‘Very good. Tell us what happened there.” 

“I laid the table, and took up the dinner at half-past 
seven. Those were Mr. Glenthorpe’s orders. When I 
went up the first time the table was covered with flints 
and fossils, which Mr. Glenthorpe was showing the 
young gentleman, and I helped Mr. Glenthorpe put these 
back into the cupboards, and then I laid the table. 
When I took up the dinner the gentlemen sat down to it, 
and Mr. Glenthorpe rang for Mr. Benson, and told him 
to bring up some sherry. When the sherry came up Mr. 
Glenthorpe told the young gentleman that it was a special 
wine sent down by his London wine merchants, and he 
asked Mr. Ronald what he thought of it. Mr. Ronald 
said he thought it was an excellent dry wine. The gen- 
tlemen didn’t talk much during dinner, though Mr. Glen- 
thorpe was a little upset about the partridges. He said 
they had been cooked too dry. He asked the young gen- 
tleman what he thought of them, but I don’t know what 
he replied, for I was not watching his lips. 

“Mr. Glenthorpe quite recovered himself by the time 
coffee was served, and was talking a lot about his re- 
searches in the neighbourhood. It was very learned 
talk, but it seemed to interest Mr. Ronald, for he asked 
a number of questions. Mr. Glenthorpe seemed very 
pleased with his interest, and told him about a valuable 
discovery made in a field near what he called the hut 
circles. He said he had bought the field off the farmer 
for £300, and was going to commence his excavations 
immediately. As the farmer refused to take a cheque 
for the land he had been over to the bank at Heathfield 
for the money, and had brought it back with him so as 
to pay it over in the morning and take possession of the 


90 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


field. Mr. Glenthorpe complained that the bank had 
made him take all the money in Treasury notes, and he 
took them out of his pocket and showed them to the 
young gentleman, saying how bulky they were, and point- 
ing out that they were all of the first issue. ,, 

“And what did Ronald say to that?” 

If the chief constable’s question covered a trap, the 
waiter seemed unconscious of it. 

“I wasn’t looking at him, sir, and did not hear his 
reply. After putting the money back in his pocket, Mr. 
Glenthorpe told me to go downstairs and tell Mr. Benson 
to bring up some of the old brandy. Mr. Benson came 
back with me, and Mr. Glenthorpe took the bottle from 
him and filled the glasses himself, telling the young gen- 
tleman that the brandy was the best in England, a relic 
of the old smuggling days, but far too good for scoun- 
drels who had never paid the King’s revenue one half- 
penny. Then when Mr. Benson had left the room he 
began to talk about the field again, and how anxious he 
was to start the excavations. That was about all I 
heard, sir, for shortly afterwards Mr. Glenthorpe told 
me to clear away the things, which took me several trips 
downstairs, because, not having the full use of my right ' 
hand, I have to use a small tray. It was not till this 
morning, when I was cleaning the cutlery, that I noticed 
that one of the knives I had taken upstairs the night 
before was missing. I think that is all, sir.” 

The silence which followed, broken only by the rapid 
travelling of Superintendent Galloway’s pen across the 
paper, revealed how intently the fat man’s auditors had 
followed his whispered recital of the events before the 
murder. It was Superintendent Galloway who, putting 
down his fountain pen, asked the waiter to describe the 
knife he had missed. 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


9 1 

"It was a small, white-handled knife, sir — not one of 
the dinner knives, but one of the smaller ones. ,, 

“Are you sure it was one of the knives you took up- 
stairs last night ?” 

“Quite sure, sir. We are very short of good cutlery, 
and I picked out this knife to put by the young gentle- 
man’s plate because it was a very good one. It and the 
carving-knife are the only two knives we have in that 
particular white-handled pattern.” 

“Was this knife sharp?” 

“Very sharp, with a rather thin blade. I keep all my 
cutlery in good order, sir.” 

“You seem to have heard a lot that passed last night 
in spite of your deafness,” said Superintendent Galloway, 
in the blustering manner he had found very useful in 
browbeating rural witnesses in the police courts. “Is it 
customary for waiters to listen to everything that is said 
when they are waiting at table ?” 

“I did not hear everything, sir,” rejoined the waiter, 
and his soft whisper was in striking contrast to the 
superintendent’s hectoring tones. “I explained to the 
other gentleman that I heard very little the young gentle- 
man said, because I wasn’t watching his lips. It was 
principally Mr. Glenthorpe’s part of the conversation 
I have related. I heard almost everything he said be- 
cause I was watching his lips closely the whole of the 
time.” 

“Why?” snapped Superintendent Galloway. 

“It was Mr. Glenthorpe’s strict instructions that I was 
to watch his lips closely every time I waited on him, 
because of my infirmity. He disliked very much being 
waited on by a deaf waiter when first he came to the 
inn. He said he didn’t want to have to bellow out when 
he wanted anything. But when he found that I could 


92 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


understand lip language, and could follow what he was 
saying by watching his lips, he allowed me to wait on 
him, but he gave me strict instructions never to take my 
eyes off him when I was waiting on him, because he 
disliked having to repeat an order.” 

At the request of Sir Henry, Superintendent Galloway 
asked the waiter if he had noticed anything peculiar in 
the actions of the murdered man’s guest during the din- 
ner. The waiter replied that he had not noticed the 
young gentleman particularly. So far as his observation 
went the young gentleman had acted just like an ordinary 
young gentleman, and he had noticed nothing strange or 
eccentric about him. 

Mr. Cromering decided to occupy the remaining time 
at his disposal by questioning Ann. The stout servant 
was brought from the kitchen in a state of trepidation, 
and, after curtsying awkwardly to the assembled gentle- 
men, flopped heavily into a chair, covered her face with 
her apron, and burst into sobs. Her story — which was 
extracted from her with much difficulty — bore out the 
innkeeper’s account of her early morning interview with 
Ronald. She said the poor young gentleman had opened 
the door when she knocked with his tea. He was fully 
dressed, with his boots in his hand, and he said he 
wouldn’t wait for any breakfast, though she had offered 
to cook him some fresh fish the master had caught the 
day before. He asked her to clean his boots, but as she 
was carrying them away he called her back and said 
he would wear them as they were. They were all 
covered with mud — a regular mask of mud. She wanted 
to rub the mud off, but he said that didn’t matter : he was 
in a hurry to get away. While she had them in her 
hands she turned them up and looked at the bottoms, 
intending to put them to the kitchen fire to dry them if 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


93 


the soles were wet, and it was then she noticed that there 
was a circular rubber heel on one which was missing on 
the other — only the iron peg being left. She took par- 
ticular notice of the peg, because she intended to hammer 
it down in the kitchen, thinking it must be very uncom- 
fortable to walk on, but the young gentleman didn’t give 
her the chance — he just took the boots from her and 
walked into his room, shutting the door behind him. 

Thus far Ann proceeded, between convulsive sobs and 
jelly-like tremors of her fat frame. By dint of further 
questioning, it was elicited from her that during this col- 
loquy at the bedroom door the young gentleman had put a 
pound note into her hand, and told her to give it to her 
master in payment of his bill. “It won’t be so much as 
that, sir,” she had said. “What about the change?” 

“Oh, damn the change !” the young gentleman had said, 
very impatient-like, and then he had said, “Here’s some- 
thing for yourself,” and put five shillings into her hand. 

“Did the young gentleman seem at all excited during 
the time you saw him?” asked the chief constable, an- 
ticipating the inevitable question from Sir Henry. 

“I don’t know what you mean by excited, sir. He 
seemed rarely impatient to be gone, though anybody 
might be excited at having to walk across them nasty 
marshes in the morning mist without a bite to stay the 
stomach. I only hope he didn’t catch a chill, the poor 
young man.” 

Further questions on this point only brought forth an- 
other shower of tears, and a sobbing asseveration that she 
hadn’t taken particular notice of the young gentleman, 
who was a kind, liberal-hearted gentleman, no matter 
what some folk might think. It was evident that the tip 
of five shillings had won her heart. 

The chief constable waited for the storm to subside 


94 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


before he was able to extract the information that Ann 
hadn’t seen the young gentleman leave the house. He 
had gone when she took up Mr. Glenthorpe’s breakfast 
nearly an hour later, and made the discovery that the 
key of Mr. Glenthorpe’s room was in the outside of the 
door, and his room empty. The young gentleman could 
easily have left the inn without being seen, for she and 
Charles were in the kitchen, and nobody else was down- 
stairs at the time. 

It was in response to Colwyn’s whispered suggestion 
that the chief constable asked Ann if she had turned off 
the gas at the meter the previous night. Yes, she had, 
she said. She heard the gentlemen leave the sitting- 
room upstairs and say good-night to each other as they 
went to their bedrooms, and she turned off the gas at 
the meter underneath the stair five minutes afterwards, 
when she had finished her ironing, and went to bed her- 
self. That would be about half-past ten. 

Mr. Cromering, who did not understand the purport 
of the question, was satisfied with the answer, and al- 
lowed the servant to retire. But Colwyn, as he went 
out to the front to get the motor ready for the journey 
to Heathfield, was of a different opinion. 

“Ann may have turned off the gas as she said,” he 
thought, “but it was turned on again during the night. 
Did Ann know this, and keep it back, or was it turned 
on and off again without her knowledge?” 


CHAPTER IX 


“Everything fits in beautifully,” said Superintendent 
Galloway confidently. “I never knew a clearer case. All 
that remains for me to do is to lay my hands on this 
chap Ronald, and an intelligent jury will see to the rest.” 

The police official and the detective had dined together 
in the small bar parlour on Colwyn’s return from driv- 
ing Mr. Cromering and Sir Henry Durwood to Heath- 
field Station. The superintendent had done more than 
justice to the meal, and a subsequent glass of the smug- 
glers' brandy had so mellowed the milk of human kind- 
ness in his composition that he felt inclined for a little 
friendly conversation with his companion. 

“You are very confident,” said Colwyn. 

“Of course I am confident. I have reason to be so. 
Everything I have seen to-day supports my original 
theory about this crime.” 

“And what is your theory as to the manner in which 
this crime was committed? I have gathered a general 
idea of the line you are taking by listening to your con- 
versation this afternoon, but I should like you to state 
your theory in precise terms. It is an interesting case, 
with some peculiar points about it which a frank dis- 
cussion might help to elucidate.” 

Superintendent Galloway looked suspiciously at Col- 
wyn out of his small hard grey eyes. His official mind 
scented an attempt to trap him, and his Norfolk prudence 
prompted him to get what he could from the detective 
but to give nothing away in return. 

95 


96 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


“I see you’re suspicious of me, Galloway,” continued 
Colwyn with a smile. “You’ve heard of city detectives 
and their ways, and you’re thinking to yourself that a 
Norfolk man is more than a match for any of them.” 

This sally was so akin to what was passing in the 
superintendent’s mind that a grim smile momentarily re- 
laxed his rugged features. 

“My thoughts are my own, I suppose,” he said. 

“Not when you’ve just given them away,” replied Col- 
wyn, in a bantering tone. “My dear Galloway, your in- 
genuous countenance is a mirror to your mind, in which 
he who runs may read. But you are quite wrong in 
suspecting me. I have no ulterior motive. My only 
interest in this crime — or in any crime — is to solve it. 
Anybody can have the credit, as far as I am concerned. 
Newspaper notoriety is nothing to me.” 

“You’ve managed to get a good deal of it without 
looking for it, then,” retorted the superintendent cannily. 
“It was only the other day I was reading a long article 
in one of the London newspapers about you, praising 
you for tracking the criminals in the Treasury Bonds 
case. The police were not mentioned.” 

“Fame — or notoriety — sometimes comes to those who 
seek it least,” replied the detective genially. “I assure 
you that article came unasked. I’m a stranger to the 
political art of keeping sweet with the journalists — it 
was a statesman, you know, who summed up gratitude 
as a lively sense of favours to come. Now, in this case, 
let us play fair, actuated by the one desire to see that 
justice is done. This case does not strike me as quite 
such a simple affair as it seems to you. You approach 
it with a preconceived theory to which you are deter- 
mined to adhere. Your theory is plausible and con- 
vincing — to some extent — but that is all the more 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


97 


reason why you should examine and test every link in 
the chain. You cannot solve difficult points by ignoring 
them and, to my mind, there are some difficult and per- 
plexing features about this case which do not altogether 
fit in with your theory.” 

“If my mind is an open book to you perhaps you’ll 
tell me what my theory is,” responded Superintendent 
Galloway, sourly. 

“Yes; that’s a fair challenge.” The detective pushed 
back his chair, and stood with his back against the 
mantelpiece, with a cigar in his mouth. “Your theory in 
this case is that chance and opportunity have made the 
crime and the criminal. Chance brings this young man 
Ronald to this lonely Norfolk inn, and sees to it that he 
is allowed to remain when the landlord wants to turn 
him away. Chance throws him into the society of a 
man of culture and education, who is only too glad of the 
opportunity of relieving the tedium of his surroundings 
in this rough uncultivated place by passing a few hours 
in the companionship of a man of his own rank of life. 
Chance contrives that this gentleman shall have in his 
possession a large sum of money which he shows to 
Ronald, who is greatly in need of money. Opportunity 
suggests the murder, provides the weapon, and gives 
Ronald the next room to his intended victim in a wing 
of the inn occupied by nobody else. 

“Your theory as to how the murder was actually com- 
mitted strikes me as possible enough — up to a certain 
point. You think that Ronald, after waiting until every- 
body in the inn is likely to be asleep, steals out of his 
own room to the room of his victim. He finds the door 
locked. Chance, however, has thoughtfully provided 
him with a window opening on to a hillside, which en- 
ables him to climb out of his own window and into 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


98 

the window of the next room. He gets in, murders Mr. 
Glenthorpe, secures his money, and, finding the key of 
his bedroom under the pillow, carries the body of his 
victim downstairs, and outside, casting it into a deep 
hole some distance from the house, in the hope of pre- 
venting or retarding discovery of the crime. Through 
an oversight he forgets the key in the door, which he 
had placed in the outside before carrying off the body, 
intending when he returned to lock the door and carry 
the key away with him. 

“Next morning you have the highly suspicious cir- 
cumstance of the young man’s hurried departure, his re- 
fusal to have his boots cleaned, the incident of the note, 
and the unshakable fact that the footprints leading to 
and from the pit where the body was discovered had 
been made by his boots. 

“As a further contributory link in the chain of evi- 
dence against Ronald, you intend to use the fact that he 
was turned out of the Grand Hotel, Durrington, the 
previous day because he couldn’t pay his hotel bill, be- 
cause this fact, combined with the fact that Mr. Glen- 
thorpe showed him the money he had drawn from the 
bank at Heathfield, supplies a strong motive for the 
crime. In this connection you intend to try to estab- 
lish that the Treasury note which Ronald left to pay his 
inn bill was one of those in Mr. Glenthorpe’s possession, 
because it happens to be one of the First Treasury issue, 
printed in black and white, and all Mr. Glenthorpe’s 
notes were of that issue, according to the murdered 
man’s own statement. That, I take it, is the police theory 
of this case.” 

“It is,” said Superintendent Galloway. “You’ve put 
it a bit more fancifully than I should, but it comes to 
the same thing. But what do you make out of the inci- 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


99 


dent at the Grand Hotel, Durrington, yesterday morn- 
ing? You were there, and saw it all. Does it seem 
strange to you that Ronald should have come straight to 
this inn and committed a murder after making that scene 
at the hotel? Do you think it suggests that Ronald has, 
well — impulses of violence, let us say?” Superintendent 
Galloway poured himself out another glass of old brandy 
and sipped it deliberately, watching the detective cau- 
tiously between the sips. 

Colwyn was silent for a moment. He was quick to 
comprehend the double-barrelled motive which underlay 
the superintendent’s question, and he had no intention of 
letting the police officer pump him for his own ends. 

“Sir Henry Durwood would be better able to answer 
that question than I,” he said. 

“I asked him when we were driving over here this 
afternoon, but he shut up like an oyster — you know 
what these professional men are, with their stiff-and- 
starched ideas of etiquette,” grumbled the superintendent. 

A flicker of amusement showed in Colwyn’s eyes. 
Really the superintendent was easily drawn, for an East 
Anglian countryman. “After all, it is only Sir Henry 
Durwood’s opinion that Ronald intended violence at the 
Grand ” he said. “Sir Henry did not give him the op- 
portunity to carry out his intention — if he had such an 
intention.” 

“Exactly my opinion,” exclaimed Superintendent Gal- 
loway, eagerly rising to the fly. “I have ascertained 
that Ronald’s behaviour during the time he was staying 
at the hotel was that of an ordinary sane Englishman. 
The proprietor says he was quite a gentleman, with 
nothing eccentric or peculiar about him, and the servants 
say the same. They are the best judges, after all. And 
nobody noticed anything peculiar about him at the break- 


IOO 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


fast table except yourself and Sir Henry — and what 
happened? Nothing, except that he was a bit excited — 
and no wonder, after the young man had just been 
ordered to leave the hotel. Then Sir Henry grabbed 
hold of him and he fainted — or pretended to faint; it 
may have been all part of his game. Sir Henry may 
have thought he intended to do something or other, but 
no British judge would admit that as evidence for the 
defence. This chap Ronald is as sane as you or me, 
and a deep, cunning cold-blooded scoundrel to boot. If 
the defence try to put up a plea of insanity they’ll find 
themselves in the wrong box. There’s not a jury in the 
world that wouldn’t hang him on the evidence against 
him.” 

This time Colwyn could not forbear smiling at the 
guileless way in which Superintendent Galloway had re- 
vealed the thoughts which had been passing through his 
mind. But his amusement was momentary, and it was 
in a grave, earnest tone that he replied: 

“The hotel incident is a puzzling one, but I agree with 
you that it doesn’t enter into the police case against 
Ronald. It is your duty to deal with the facts of the 
case, and if you think that Ronald committed this mur- 
der ” 

“If I think that Ronald committed this murder!” 
Superintendent Galloway’s interruption was both amazed 
and indignant. “I’m as certain he committed the murder 
as if I saw him do it with my own eyes. Did you, or any- 
body else, ever see a clearer case?” 

“It is because the circumstantial evidence against him 
is so strong that I speak as I do,” continued Colwyn, in 
the same earnest tones. “Innocent men have been 
hanged in England before now on circumstantial evi- 
dence. It is for that very reason that we should guard 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


IOI 


ourselves against the tendency to accept the circum- 
stantial evidence against him as proof of his guilt, instead 
of examining all the facts with an open mind. We are 
the investigators of the circumstances: it is not for us 
to prejudge. That is the worst of circumstantial evi- 
dence: it tends to pre judgment, and sometimes to the 
ignoring of circumstances and facts which might tell in 
favour of the suspect, if they were examined with a 
more impartial eye. It is for these reasons that I am 
always careful to suspend judgment in cases of circum- 
stantial evidence, and examine carefully even the small- 
est trifles which might tell in favour of the man to whom 
circumstantial evidence points.” 

“Have you discovered anything, since you have been 
at the inn, which shakes the theory that Ronald is the 
murderer ?” 

“I have come to the conclusion that the case is much 
more complex and puzzling than was at first supposed.” 

“I should like to know what makes you think that,” 
returned Superintendent Galloway. “Up to the present 
I have seen nothing to shake my conviction that Ronald 
is the guilty man. What have you discovered that 
makes you think otherwise?” 

“I do not go as far as that — yet. But I have come 
across certain things which, to my mind, need elucidation 
before it is possible to pronounce definitely on Ronald’s 
guilt or innocence. To take them consecutively, let me 
repeat that I cannot reconcile Ronald’s excitable conduct 
at the Durrington hotel with his supposed actions at the 
inn. In the former case he behaved like a man who, 
whether insane or merely excited, had not the slightest 
fear of the consequences. At this inn he acted like a 
crafty cautious scoundrel who had weighed the conse- 
quences of his acts beforehand, and took every possible 


102 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


precaution to save his own skin. You see nothing in- 
consistent in this ” 

“I do not,” interjected the superintendent firmly. 

“Quite so. Then, the next point that perplexes me is 
why Ronald took the trouble to carry the body of his 
victim to the pit and throw it in.” 

“For the motive of concealment, and to retard dis- 
covery. But for the footprints it would probably have 
given him several days — perhaps weeks — in which to 
make good his escape.” 

“Did he not run a bigger risk of discovery by carrying 
the body downstairs in an occupied house, and across 
several hundred yards of open land close to the village?” 

“Not in a remote spot like this. They keep early hours 
in this part of the country. I guarantee if you walked 
through the village now you wouldn’t see a soul stirring.” 

“Ronald was not likely to know that. Next, how did 
Ronald, a stranger to the place, know the locality of this 
pit so accurately as to be able to walk straight to it?” 

“Easily. He might have approached the inn from that 
side, and passed it on his way. And nothing is more 
likely than Mr. Glenthorpe would tell him about the pit 
in the course of his conversation about the excavations. 
There is also the possibility that Ronald knew of the 
existence of the pit from a previous visit to this part 
of the country.” 

“My next point is that Ronald was put to sleep in 
what he imagined was an upstairs bedroom. How did 
he discover that his bedroom, and the bedroom of Mr. 
Glenthorpe’s adjoining, opened on to a hillside which 
enabled him to get out of one bedroom and into the 
other ?” 

“Again, Mr. Glenthorpe probably told him — he seems 
to have been a garrulous old chap, according to all ac- 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


103 


counts. Or Ronald may have looked out of his window 
when he was retiring, and seen it for himself. I always 
look out of a bedroom window, and particularly if it is 
a strange bedroom, before getting into bed.” 

“These are matters of opinion, and, though your ex- 
planations are possible ones, I do not agree with you. 
We are looking at this case from entirely different points 
of view. You believe that Ronald committed the mur- 
der, and you are allowing that belief to colour every- 
thing connected with the case. I am looking at this 
murder as a mystery which has not yet been solved, and, 
without excluding the possibility that Ronald is the 
murderer, I am not going to allow the circumstantial 
evidence against him to make me accept his guilt as a 
foregone conclusion until I have carefully examined and 
tested all the facts for and against that theory. 

“The one outstanding probability is that Mr. Glen- 
thorpe was murdered for his money. Now, excluding 
for the time being the circumstantial evidence against 
Ronald — though without losing sight of it — the next 
point that arises is was he murdered by somebody in the 
inn or by somebody from outside — say, for example, 
one of the villagers employed on his excavation works. 
The waiter's story of the missing knife suggests the 
former theory, but I do not regard that evidence as in- 
controvertible. The knife might have been stolen from 
the kitchen by a man who had been drinking at the bar ; 
indeed, until we have recovered the weapon it is not 
even established that this was the knife with which the 
murder was committed. It might have been some other 
knife. We must not take the waiter’s story for granted 
until we have recovered the knife, and not necessarily 
then. But that story, as it stands, inclines to support 
the theory that the murder was committed by somebody 


104 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


in the inn. On the other hand, the theory of an out- 
side murderer lends itself to a very plausible recon- 
struction of the crime. Suppose, for example, the mur- 
der had been committed by one of Mr. Glenthorpe’s 
workmen, actuated by the dual motives of revenge and 
robbery, or by either motive. Apparently the whole 
village knew of Mr. Glenthorpe’s intention to draw this 
money which was in his possession when he was mur- 
dered — he seems to have been a man who talked very 
freely of his private affairs — and the amount, £300, 
would be a fortune to an agricultural labourer or a fisher- 
man. Such a man would know all about the bedroom 
windows on that side of the inn opening on to the hillside, 
and would naturally choose that means of entry to com- 
mit the crime. And, if he were a labourer in Mr. Glen- 
thorpe’s employ, the thought of concealing the body by 
casting it into the pit would probably occur to him.” 

“I do not think there is much in that theory,” said 
Superintendent Galloway thoughtfully. “Still, it is 
worth putting to the test. I’ll inquire in the morning 
if any of the villagers are suspicious characters, or 
whether any of Glenthorpe’s men had a grudge against 
him.” 

“Now let us leave theories and speculations and come 
to facts. Our investigations of the murdered man’s 
room this afternoon gave us several clues, not the least 
important of which is that we are enabled to fix the 
actual time of the murder with some degree of accuracy. 
It is always useful, in a case of murder, to be able to 
establish the approximate time at which it was com- 
mitted. In this case, the murder was certainly com- 
mitted between the hours of 11 p. m. and 11.30 p. m., 
and, in all probability, not much before half-past eleven.” 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


io 5 

“How do you fix it so accurately as that?” asked the 
police officer, looking keenly at the detective. 

“According to Ann, the gentlemen went to their rooms 
about half -past ten, and she turned off the gas downstairs 
shortly afterwards, and went to bed herself. When we 
examined the room this afternoon, we found patches of 
red mud of the same colour and consistency of the soil 
outside the window leading from the window to the bed- 
side, and a pool — a small isolated pool — of water near 
the open window. There were, as you recollect, no 
footprints outside the window. On the other hand, the 
footprints from the inn to the pit are clear and distinct. 
Rain commenced to fall last night shortly before eleven, 
but it did not fall heavily until eleven o’clock. From 
then till half-past eleven it was a regular downpour, when 
it ceased, and it has not rained since. Now, the patches 
of red mud in the bedroom, and the obliteration of 
footprints outside the window, prove that the murderer 
entered the room during the storm, but the footprints 
leading to the pit prove that the body was not removed 
from the room until the rain had completely ceased, 
otherwise they Would have been obliterated also, or 
partly obliterated. These facts make it clear that the 
murder was committed between eleven and half-past, but 
the pool of water near the window enables us to fix the 
time more accurately still, and say that he entered the 
room during the time the rain was at its heaviest — that 
is, between ten minutes and half-past eleven.” 

“I’m hanged if I see how you fix it so definitely,” said 
the superintendent, who had been following the other’s 
deductions with interest. “The pool of water may have 
collected at any time, once the window was open.” 

“My dear Galloway, you are working on the rule- 
of-thumb deduction that the rain blew in the open win- 


io6 THE SHRIEKING PIT 

dow and formed the pool. As a matter of fact, it did 
nothing of the kind. The wind was blowing the other 
way, and away from that side of the house. Further- 
more, the hill on that side of the inn acts as a natural bar- 
rier against rain and weather. ,, 

“Then how the deuce do you account for the water in 
the room? ,, 

“Surely you have not forgotten the piece of black 
material we found sticking on the nail outside the win- 
dow ?” 

“I have not forgotten it, but I do not see how you 
connect it with the pool of water. ,, 

“Because it is a piece of umbrella silk. The murderer 
was carrying an umbrella — and an open umbrella — have 
you the piece of silk? If so, let us look at it.” 

The superintendent produced the square inch of silk 
from his waistcoat pocket, and examined it closely: “Of 
course it's umbrella silk,” he exclaimed, slapping his 
leg. “Funny I didn’t recognise it at the time.” 

“Perhaps I wouldn’t have recognised it myself, but 
for the fact that a piece of umbrella silk formed an 
irrfportant clue in a recent case I was engaged upon,” 
replied the detective. “Experience counts for a lot — 
sometimes. See, this piece of silk is hemmed on the edge 
— pretty conclusive proof that the murderer was carrying 
the umbrella open, to shield him from the rain, and that 
it caught on the nail outside the window, tearing off the 
edge. He closed it as he got inside the window, and 
placed it near the window-sill, and the rain dripped off 
it and formed the pool of water. The size of the pool, 
and the fact that the murderer carried an open um- 
brella to shield him, prove pretty conclusively that he 
made his entrance into the room during the time the rain 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


107 

was falling heaviest — which was between 11.10 p. m. and 

11.30. 

“We now come to what is the most important dis- 
covery of all — the pieces of candle-grease we found in 
the murdered man’s bedroom. They help to establish 
two curious facts, the least important of which is that 
somebody tried to light the gas in Mr. Glenthorpe’s room 
last night, and, failing to do so, went downstairs and 
turned on the gas at the meter.” 

‘‘What if they did?” grunted Superintendent Gallo- 
way, pouring out another glass of brandy. He was 
secretly annoyed at having overlooked the clue of the 
umbrella silk, and was human enough to be angry with 
the detective for opening his eyes to the fact. “I don’t 
see how you’re going to prove it, and, even if you did, 
it doesn’t matter a dump one way or the other.” 

“We’ll let that point go,” rejoined Colwyn curtly. 
“Your attitude in shutting your eyes to facts hardly 
encourages me to proceed, but I’ll try. Would you 
mind showing me those bits of candle-grease you picked 
up in the bedroom?” 

Superintendent Galloway produced a metal matchbox 
from his pocket, emptied some pieces of candle-grease, 
a burnt wooden match and a broken matchhead from 
it, and sat back eyeing the detective with a supercilious 
smile. Colwyn, after examining them closely, brought 
from his own pocket an envelope, and shook several 
more pieces of candle-grease on the table. 

“Look at these pieces of candle-grease side by side,” he 
said. “Yours were picked up alongside the bed ; I found 
mine underneath the gas burner.” 

Superintendent Galloway glanced at the pieces of 
candle-grease with the same supercilious smile. “I see 


io8 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


them,” he said. “They are pieces of candle-grease. 
What of them?” 

“Do you not see that they are different kinds of candle- 
grease? The pieces you picked up alongside the bed 
are tallow; mine, picked up from underneath the gas- 
globe, are wax.” 

The Superintendent had not noticed the difference in 
the candle-grease, but he thought it beneath his dignity 
to examine them again. “The murderer may have had 
two candles,” he said oracularly. “Anyway, what does 
it matter? They’re both candle-grease.” 

Colwyn swept his fragments back into his pocket with 
a quick impatient gesture. “Both candle-grease, as you 
say,” he returned sharply. “We do not seem to be mak- 
ing much progress in our investigations, so let us dis- 
continue them. Good-night.” 


CHAPTER X 


Colwyn went to bed, but not to sleep. Hour after 
hour he lay awake, staring into the darkness, endeavour^ 
ing to put together the facts he had discovered during 
the afternoon’s investigations at the inn. But they re- 
sembled those irritating odd-shaped pieces of a puzzle 
which refuse to fit into the remainder no matter which 
way they are turned. Try as he would, he could not fit 
his clues into harmony with the police theory of the 
murder. 

On the other hand, he could not, nor did he attempt, 
to shut his eyes to the strong case against Ronald, for he 
fully realised that there was much to be explained in the 
young man’s actions before any alternative theory to that 
held by the police could be sustained. But so far he 
did not see his way to an alternative theory. He sought 
vainly for a foundation on which to build his clues and 
discoveries ; for some overlooked trifle which would help 
him to read aright the true order and significance of the 
jumbled assortment of events in this strange case. 

In the first place, was Ronald’s explanation, about 
losing his way and wandering to the inn by chance, the 
true one? The police accepted it without question, but 
was it likely that a man who was in the habit of taking 
long walks about the coast would lose his way easily ? As 
against that doubt, there were the statements of the inn- 
keeper and the deaf waiter that they had never seen 
Ronald before. If Ronald were not guilty, why had he 
departed so hurriedly from the inn that morning? And 
109 


lio 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


if he were not the murderer what was the explanation of 
the damning evidence of the footprints leading to the 
pit in which the body of the murdered man had been 
flung? If the discovery of the two kinds of candle- 
grease in Mr. Glenthorpe’s bedroom indicated that two 
persons were in the room on the night of the murder, 
who were those two persons, and what did they both 
go there for? 

He reflected Ihat his only tangible reason, so far, for 
not accepting the police theory was based on the belief 
that two people had been in the murdered man’s room, 
and that belief rested on the discovery of a spot of 
candle-grease which in itself was merely presumptive, 
but not conclusive evidence. It was necessary to estab- 
lish beyond doubt the supposition that two people had 
been in the room before he could presume to draw in- 
ferences from it. And, if he succeeded in establishing 
that supposition, might not Ronald have been one of the 
two persons, and the actual murderer? What was the 
significance of the broken incandescent burner, the 
turned-on gas, and the faint mark under the window? 

These questions revolved in Colwyn’s head in a circle, 
always bringing him back to his starting point that the 
solution of the case did not lie on the surface, and that 
the police theory could not be made to fit in with his 
own discoveries. The latter were in themselves internal 
evidence that the whole truth had not yet been brought 
to light. 

Gradually the line of the circle grew nebulous, and 
Colwyn was fast falling asleep through sheer weariness, 
when a slight sharp sound, like that made by turning a 
key in a lock, brought him back to wide-eyed wakeful- 
ness. He sat up in bed, listening with strained ears, 
feeling for the box of matches at his bedside. He found 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


hi 


them, and endeavoured to strike a light. But the matches 
were war matches, and one after another broke off in 
his hand against the side of the box. He tried holding 
the next close to the head, but the head flew off. With 
a muttered malediction on British manufacturers, Col- 
wyn struck several more in rapid succession before he 
succeeded in lighting the candle at his bedside. He got 
quietly out of bed, and, leaving the candle on the table, 
opened his door noiselessly and looked out into the pas- 
sage. 

He had been put to sleep in a small bedroom in the 
deserted upstairs wing where the murder had been com- 
mitted. His room was opposite the lumber room, which 
was four doors away from the room in which the body 
of the dead man lay. When the question of accommo- 
dation for Superintendent Galloway and himself had 
been discussed, the former had chosen to have a bed 
made up in the bar parlour downstairs as more com- 
fortable and snug than any of the bedrooms upstairs, but 
Colwyn had consented to sleep in the deserted wing. 
The innkeeper, who had lighted him upstairs, had apolo- 
gised for the humble room and scanty furniture, but 
Colwyn had laughingly accepted the shortcomings of the 
room as a point of no importance, and had stood at his 
door for some moments watching a queer effect in 
shadows caused by the innkeeper’s candle throwing 
gigantic wavering outlines of his gaunt retreating figure 
on the bare stone wall as he went down the side passage 
to his own bedroom. 

Colwyn, looking out into the passage, could hear or see 
nothing to account for the sound that had startled him 
into wakefulness. The candle by his bedside gave a 
feeble glimmer which did not reach to the door, and 
the passage was as dark and silent as the interior of a 


112 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


vault. The stillness and blackness seemed to float into 
the bedroom like a cloud. But he was certain he had not 
been mistaken. A door had been unlocked somewhere 
in the darkness, and it had been unlocked by human 
hands. Who had come to that deserted wing of the 
inn in the small hours, and on what business? He 
decided to explore the passage and find out. 

He left the door of his room partly open while he 
donned a few articles of clothing, and pulled a pair of 
slippers on his feet. He glanced at his watch, and noted 
with surprise that it wanted but a few minutes to three 
o’clock. He extinguished his candle and, taking his 
electric torch, crept silently into the passage. 

He recalled the arrangements of the rooms as he had 
observed them the previous afternoon. There were three 
more bedrooms adjoining his, all empty. On the other 
side of the passage was the lumber room opposite, next 
came the room in which Ronald slept, then the dead 
man’s room, and finally the sitting-room he had occu- 
pied. The door of the sitting-room opened not very 
far from the head of the stairs. 

Colwyn first examined the bedrooms on his side of the 
passage, stepping as noiselessly as a cat, opening and 
shutting each door without a sound, and scrutinising the 
interiors by the light of his torch. They were empty 
and deserted, as he had seen them the previous after- 
noon. On reaching the end of the passage he glanced 
over the head of the staircase, but there was no light 
glimmering in the square well of darkness and no sound 
in the lower part of the house to suggest that anybody 
was stirring downstairs. He turned away, and made his 
way back along the passage, trying the doors on the other 
side with equal precaution as he went. The first three 
doors — the sitting-room, the murdered man’s bedroom, 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


ii3 

and Ronald’s bedroom — were locked, as he had seen 
them locked the previous afternoon by Superintendent 
Galloway, who had carried the keys away with him un- 
til after the inquest on the body. 

The lumber room at the other end of the passage had 
not been locked, and the door stood ajar. Colwyn en- 
tered it, and by the glancing light of the torch looked 
over the heavy furniture, mouldering linen, and stiffly 
upended bedpoles and curtain rods which nearly filled 
the room. The clock of a bygone generation stood on 
the mantel-piece, and the black winding hole in its white 
face seemed to leer at him like an evil eye as the light of 
the torch fell on it. But nobody had been in the room. 
The dust which encrusted the furniture and the floor had 
not been disturbed for months. 

Colwyn returned, puzzled, to his own room. Could he 
have been mistaken ? Was it possible that the sound he had 
heard had been caused by the door of the lumber room 
swinging to? No! the sound had been too clear and dis- 
tinct to admit the possibility of mistake, and it had been 
made by the grating of a key in a lock, not by a swing- 
ing door. He stood in the darkness by his open door, list- 
ening intently. Several minutes passed in profound 
silence, and then there came a scraping, spluttering sound. 
Somebody not far away had struck a match. Looking 
cautiously out into the passage, he saw, to his utter amaze- 
ment, a gleam of light appear beneath the door in which 
the dead man lay. The next moment the gleam moved 
up the line of the door sideways, cutting into the dark- 
ness outside like a knife. The gleam became broader 
until the whole door was revealed. Somebody inside 
was opening it. Even as he looked a hand stole forth 
from the aperture through which the light streamed, and 
rested on the jamb outside. 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


1 14 

Colwyn was a man of strong nerves, but that sudden 
manifestation of light and a human hand from a sealed 
death chamber momentarily unbalanced his common 
sense, and caused it to swing like a pendulum towards 
the supernatural. He would not have been surprised if 
the light and the hand had been followed by the apparition 
of the murdered man on the threshold, demanding venge- 
ance on his murderer. The feeling passed immediately, 
and with the return of reason the detective stepped back 
into his room, closed his door quietly, and watched 
through a knife’s edge slit for the visitor to the death 
chamber to appear. 

The door of the dead man’s room opened gently, and 
the face of the innkeeper’s daughter peered forth into the 
darkness, her impassive face, behind which everything 
was hid, showing like a beautiful waxen mask against the 
light of the candle she held in her hand. Her clear gaze 
rested on Colwyn’s door, and it seemed to him for a 
moment as though their glances met through the slit, then 
her eyes swept along the passage from one end to the 
other. As if satisfied by the scrutiny that she had noth- 
ing to fear, she stepped forth from the death chamber, 
closed and locked the door behind her, withdrew the key, 
walked swiftly along the passage to the head of the stairs, 
and descended them. 

Colwyn opened his door and followed her. He paused 
outside to pick up the boots which he had placed there to 
be cleaned, and carrying them in his hand, ran quickly to 
the head of the stairs. Looking over the landing, he saw 
the girl reach the bottom of the stairs and turn down the 
passage towards the back door, still carrying the lighted 
candle in her hand. 

When Colwyn reached the bottom, the girl and the light 
had disappeared. But a swift gust of wind in the passage 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


ii5 

revealed to him that she had gone out by the back door, 
and closed it after her. He followed along the passage 
till he felt the latch of the back door in his hand. The 
door yielded to the lifting of the latch, and he found him- 
self in the open air. 

It was a grey northern night, with a bitter wind driving 
the sea mist in billows over the marshes, and a waning 
half moon shining* fitfully through the dingy clouds which 
scudded across a lead-coloured sky. By the light of the 
moon he saw the figure of the girl, already some distance 
from the house, swiftly making her way along the reedy 
canal path which threaded the oozing marshes. 

Colwyn was not a stranger to marshlands. He had 
waded kneedeep from dawn to dusk through Irish bogs 
after wild geese; he had followed the migratory seafowl 
of Finland, Russia and Serbia into their Scottish breed- 
ing haunts, and he had once tried to keep pace with the 
sweep of the Bore over the Solway Marshes, but he had 
never undertaken a task so difficult as following this girl 
across a Norfolk marshland. The path she trod so un- 
hesitatingly was narrow, and slippery, with the canal on 
one side and the marshes on the other. In keeping clear 
of the canal Colwyn frequently found himself slipping 
into the marshes. His feet and legs speedily became wet 
and caked with ooze, and once he nearly lost one of his 
boots, which he had pulled on hurriedly outside the inn, 
and left unlaced. 

But the girl walked straight on with a swift and even 
gait, treading the narrow path across the morass as se- 
curely as though she had been on the high road. Col- 
wyn soon realised that the path they were following was 
taking them straight across the marshes to the sea. The 
surging of the waves against the breakwater sounded 
increasingly loud on his ears, and after a while he saw 


n6 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


the breakwater itself rise momentarily out of the dark- 
ness like a yellow wall, only to disappear again. But 
presently it was visible once more, looming out in increas- 
ing clearness, with a ghostly glimmering of the grey 
waters of the North Sea heaving turbulently outside. 

As they neared the breakwater the path became drier 
and firmer, and the light of the moon, falling through a 
ragged rift in the scurrying clouds, showed a line of 
sand banks and strips of tussockland emerging from the 
marshes as the marshes approached the sea. 

The girl kept on with the same resolute pace, until 
she reached a spot where the canal found its outlet to 
the sea. There she turned aside and skirted the break- 
water wall for a little distance, as if searching for some- 
thing. The next moment she was scaling the breakwater 
wall. Colwyn was too far away to intercept her, or reach 
her if she slipped. He stopped and watched her climb 
to the top of the wall, and stand there, like a creature of 
the sea, with the spray leaping hungrily at her slight 
figure. He saw her take something from the bosom of 
her dress and cast it into the wild waste of seething 
waters in front of her. Having done this she turned to 
descend the breakwater. Colwyn had barely time to 
leave the path, and take refuge in the shadow of the wall, 
before she reached the path again and set out to retrace 
her steps across the lonely marshes. 


CHAPTER XI 


Colwyn waited on the marshes until the coming of 
the dawn revealed the breakwater and the sea crashing 
against it. A brief scrutiny of the white waste of waters, 
raging endlessly against the barrier, convinced him of 
the futility of attempting to discover what the innkeep- 
er’s daughter had thrown from the breakwater wall an 
hour before. The sea would retain her secret. 

The sea mist hung heavily over the marshes as Col- 
wyn cautiously picked his way back along the slippery 
canal path. Sooner than he expected, the inn appeared 
from the grey mist like a sheeted ghost. Colwyn stood 
for a few moments regarding the place attentively. 
There was something weird and sinister about this lonely 
inn on the edge of the marshes. Strange things must 
have happened there in the past, but the lawless secrets 
of a bygone generation of smugglers had been safely kept 
by the old inn. The cold morning light imparted 
the semblance of a leer to the circular windows high 
up in the white wall, as though they defied the world 
to discover the secret of the death of Roger Glen- 
thorpe. 

There was no sign of life about the inn as Colwyn 
approached it. The back door yielded to his pull on the 
latch, and he gained his room unobserved; apparently 
all the inmates were still wrapped in slumber. Col- 
wyn spent half an hour or so in making some sort of 
a toilet. He had brought his suit-case with him in the 
car, so he changed his wet clothes, shaved himself in 
117 


n8 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


cold water, washed, and brushed his hair. He looked 
at his watch, and found that it was after six o'clock. 
He wondered if the girl Peggy was sleeping after her 
night’s adventure. 

A swishing noise, somewhere in the lower regions, 
broke the profound stillness of the house. Somebody 
was washing the floor, somewhere. Colwyn opened his 
door and went downstairs. Ann, the stout servant, was 
washing the passage. She was on her hands and knees, 
with her back towards the staircase, swabbing vigor- 
ously, and did not see the detective descending the 
stairs. 

“Good morning, Ann,” said Colwyn, pleasantly. 

She turned her head quickly, with a start, and Col- 
wyn could have sworn that the quick glance she gave 
him was one of fear. But she merely said, “Good 
morning, sir,” and went on with her work, while the 
detective stood looking at her. She finished the pas- 
sage in a few minutes and got awkwardly to her feet/* 
wiping her red hands on her coarse apron. 

“You and I are the only early risers in the house, 
it seems, Ann,” said Colwyn, still regarding her atten- 
tively. 

“If you please, sir, Charles is up, and gone out to the 
canal to see if there are any fish on the master’s night 
lines.” 

“Fresh fish for breakfast! Well, that’s a very good 
thing,” replied the detective, reflecting it was just as 
well that he had got in before Charles went out. “What 
time does Mr. Benson come down?” 

“About half -past seven, sir, as a general rule, but 
sometimes he has his breakfast in bed.” 

“That’s not a bad idea at times, Ann. But I see you 
are impatient to get on with your work. Would you 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


119 

mind if I went into the kitchen and talked to you 
while you are preparing breakfast ?” 

Again there was a gleam of fear in the woman’s 
eyes as she looked quickly at the detective, but her voice 
was self-possessed as she replied : 

“Very well, sir,” and turned down the passage which 
led to the kitchen. 

“What time was it when you turned off the gas the 
night before last?” asked Colwyn, when the kitchen was 
reached. “You told us yesterday that it was about half- 
past ten, but you did not seem very sure of the exact 
time. Can you not fix it accurately? Try and think.” 

The look the woman gave Colwyn this time was un- 
doubtedly one of relief. 

“Well, sir,” she said, “I usually turn off the gas at 
ten o’clock, but, to tell you the truth, I was a little bit 
late that night.” 

“A little bit late, eh? That means you forgot all 
about it.” 

“I did forget about it, and that’s the truth. The 
master told me not to turn off the meter until the gentle- 
men in the parlour upstairs had gone to bed. Charles 
told me when he came down from the upstairs par- 
lour with the last of the dinner things that the gentle- 
men were still sitting in front of the fire talking, but 
some time after Charles had come down and gone to 
bed I heard them moving about upstairs, as though they 
were going to their rooms.” 

“What time was that?” asked the detective. 

“Just halfrpast ten. I happened to glance at the 
kitchen clock at the time. Charles, who had been told 
that he wouldn’t be wanted upstairs again, had gone 
to bed quite half an hour before, but I didn’t go until 
I had folded some clothes which I had airing in front 


120 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


of the kitchen fire. When I did get to bed, and was 
just falling off to sleep, I suddenly remembered that 
I had forgotten to turn off the gas at the meter. I got 
out of bed again, lit my candle, and went up the passage 
to the meter, which is just under the foot of the stairs, 
turned off the gas, and went back to bed. ,, 

“Did you notice the time then?” 

“The kitchen clock was just chiming eleven as I got 
back to my bed.” 

“You are sure it was not twelve?” 

“Quite sure, sir.” 

“Did you hear any sound upstairs?” 

“No, sir. It was as quiet as the dead.” 

“Was it raining at that time?” 

“It started to rain heavens hard just as I got back 
to bed, but before that the wind was moaning round 
the house, as it do moan in these parts, and I knew 
we was in for a storm. I was glad enough to get back 
to my warm bed.” 

“You might have seen something, if you had been a 
little later. The staircase is the only way the body 
could have been brought down from there.” The de- 
tective pointed to the room above where the dead man 
lay. 

The woman trembled violently. 

“IPs God’s mercy I didn’t see something,” she said, 
and her voice fell to a husky whisper. “I should ’a’ 
died wi’ fright if I had seen it being brought down- 
stairs. All day long I’ve been thanking God I didn’t 
see anything.” 

“Do nobody else but you and Charles sleep down- 
stairs ?” 

“Nobody, sir. I sleep in a small room off the kitchen, 
but Charles sleeps in one of the rooms in the passage 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


121 


which leads off the kitchen, the first room, not far from 
my own. But that’d been no help to me if I’d seen 
anything. I might have screamed the house down be- 
fore Charles would have heard me, he being stone deaf.” 

“Quite true, Ann. And now is that all you have to 
tell me about the gas?” 

The woman seemed to have some difficulty in reply- 
ing, but finally she stammered out in an embarrassed 
voice, plucking at her apron the while: 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Look at me, Ann, and tell me the truth. Come now, 
it will be better for everybody.” 

The countrywoman looked at the detective with whit- 
ening face, and there was something in his penetrating 
gaze that kept her frightened eyes fixed on his. 

“Please, sir ” 

“Yes, Ann, go on,” prompted the detective encourag- 
ingly. 

But the woman didn’t go on ; there crept into her face 
instead an obstinate look, her mouth closed tightly, and 
her hands ceased twitching. 

“I’ve told you everything, sir,” she said quietly. 

“You’ve not told me you found the meter turned on 
when you got up yesterday morning,” replied the de- 
tective sternly. 

The woman’s fat face turned haggard with anxiety, 
and then she began to cry softly with her apron to her 
eyes. 

“Why did you not tell us this, Ann?” 

“If you please, sir, I thought that the master mightn’t 
like it if he knew. He’s very particular about having 
the gas turned off at night, and he might have thought 
I had forgotten it.” 

Colwyn gave her another searching look. 


122 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


“Even if that were true, Ann, you have no right to 
keep back anything that may tend to shield the guilty, 
or injure the innocent.” 

“I didn’t think it mattered, sir.” 

“You still say that you heard nothing after you went 
to bed?” 

“No, sir. I fell asleep as soon as I got into bed.” 

“So you said before, but you did not tell us the whole 
truth yesterday, you know, and I do not know whether 
to believe you now.” 

“Hush, sir, there’s somebody coming down the pas- 
sage.” 

Colwyn strolled into the passage and encountered 
Superintendent Galloway coming towards the kitchen. 
He stared at the detective and exclaimed: 

“Hello, you’re up early.” 

“Yes; I found it difficult to sleep, so I came down- 
stairs.” 

“I hope you’ve not been making love to Ann,” said 
Galloway, who had his own sense of humour. “I’m 
looking for this infernal waiter, Charles. He is never 
about when he’s wanted. Charles! Charles!” 

Superintendent Galloway’s shouts brought Ann hur- 
rying from the kitchen, and she explained to him, as 
she had explained to Colwyn, that Charles had gone 
on to the marshes to look for fish. 

“Send him to my room as soon as he comes in; I’ve 
other fish for him to fry,” grumbled the superintendent. 
“A queer household this,” he said to Colwyn, as they 
walked along the passage. “Ah, here is Charles, fish 
and all.” 

The fat waiter was hurrying in with a string of fish 
in his hand, and he came towards them in response to 
Superintendent Galloway’s commanding gesture. The 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


123 


superintendent told him to go out and intercept Constable 
Queensmead before he went out with his search party, 
and bring him to the inn. Charles nodded an indication 
that he understood the instruction, and turned away to 
execute it. 

“I want Queensmead to get a dozen of the village 
blockheads together for a jury,” he said to Colwyn. 
“The coroner sent me word before we left Durrington 
yesterday that he’d be over this morning, but he did not 
say what time, and I forgot to ask him. He’s the man 
to kick up a devil of a shindy if he came and found we 
were not ready for him.” 

Queensmead speedily appeared in response to the 
summons, listened quietly to Superintendent Galloway’s 
laconic command to catch a jury and catch them quick, 
and went back to the village to secure twelve good 
men and true. 

Colwyn and Galloway meanwhile breakfasted to- 
gether in the bar parlour, on some of the fish which 
Charles had brought in. As nothing followed the fish 
Superintendent Galloway, who was an excellent trench- 
erman, rang the bell and ordered the waiter to bring 
some eggs and bacon. The waiter hesitated a moment, 
and then said that he believed they were out of bacon. 
There were some eggs, if they would do. 

“Bring me a couple, boiled, as quick as you like,” 
said the superintendent. “This is a queer kind of inn,” 
he grumbled to Colwyn. “They don’t give you enough 
to eat.” 

“I think they’re a little short themselves,” replied 
Colwyn. 

“By Jove, I believe you’re right!” said the superin- 
tendent, staring hard at the edibles on the table before 
him. “There’s not much here— a piece of butter no 


124 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


bigger than a walnut, a spoonful of jam, and tea as 
weak as water. Come to think of it, they gave us 
nothing but some of Glenthorpe’s left over game for 
dinner last night. You’re right, they are hard up” 

Superintendent Galloway looked at Colwyn with as 
much animation on his heavy features as though he 
had lighted on some new and important discovery. 
Colwyn, who had finished his breakfast and was not 
particularly interested in the conversation, strolled out 
with the intention of smoking a cigar outside the front 
door. In the passage he encountered Ann, bearing a 
tray with two cups and saucers, a pot of tea and some 
bread and butter which she proceeded to carry up- 
stairs. Colwyn wondered for whom the breakfast was 
intended. There were three people upstairs — the father, 
his daughter, and the poor mad woman, and the break- 
fast was laid for two. The appearance of the inn- 
keeper descending the stairs, answered the question. 
Colwyn accosted him as he came down. 

“You’re a late riser, Benson.” 

“Yes, sir, it’s a bit difficult to handle Mother in the 
morning: the only way to keep her quiet is for me to 
stay with her until Peggy is ready to go to her and 
give her her breakfast. Mother is quiet enough with 
Peggy and me, but nobody else can do anything with 
her, and sometimes nobody can do anything with her 
except my daughter. She spends a lot of time with her, 
sir.” 

The innkeeper looked more like a bird than ever as 
he proffered this explanation, standing at the foot of 
the stairs dressed as he had been the previous night, 
with his bright bird’s eyes peering from beneath his 
shock of iron-grey hair at the man in front of him. 
Colwyn noticed that his hair had been recently wet, 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


125 


and plastered straight down so that it hung like a ridge 
over his forehead — just as it had been the previous 
night. Colwyn wondered why the man wore his hair 
like that. Did he always affect that eccentric style of 
hairdressing, or had he adopted it to alter his personal 
appearance — to disguise himself, or to conceal some- 
thing ? 

“IPs no life for a young girl/’ said the detective, in 
answer to the innkeeper’s last remark. 

“I know that, sir. But what am I to do ? I cannot 
afford to keep a nurse. Peggy never complains. She’s 
used to it. But if you’ll excuse me, sir. I must go and 
get the room ready for the inquest.” 

“What room is it going to be held in?” 

“Superintendent Galloway told me to put a table and 
some chairs into the last empty room off the passage 
leading into the kitchen. It’s the biggest room in the 
house, and there are plenty of chairs in the lumber 
room upstairs.” 

“It should do excellently for the purpose, I should 
think,” said Colwyn. 

A few moments later he saw the innkeeper and the 
waiter carrying chairs from the lumber room downstairs 
into the empty room, where Ann dusted them. Then 
they carried in a small table from another room. Super- 
intendent Galloway, with inky fingers and a red face, 
and a sheaf of foolscap papers in his hand, came bustling 
out of the bar parlour to superintend the arrangements. 
When the chairs had been placed to his liking he ordered 
the innkeeper to bring him a glass of ale. While he 
was drinking it Constable Queensmead entered the 
front door with a file of shambling, rough-looking vil- 
lager^ trailing behind him, and announced to his su- 
perior officer that the men were intended to form a 


126 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


jury. Superintendent Galloway seemed quite satisfied 
with their appearance, and remarked to Colwyn that he 
didn’t care how soon the coroner arrived — now he had 
the jury and witnesses ready for him. 

“How many witnesses do you propose to call?” said 
Colwyn. 

“Five: Queensmead, Benson, the waiter, and the two 
men who found the footprints leading to the pit and 
who recovered the body and brought it here. That’s 
enough for a committal. The coroner will no doubt 
bring a doctor from Heathfield to certify the cause of 
death. I’ve got all the statements ready. I took Ben- 
son’s and the waiter’s yesterday. The waiter’s evidence 
is the principal thing, of course. Do you remember 
suggesting to me last night the possibility of this mur- 
der having been committed by one of Mr. Glenthorpe’s 
workmen with a grudge against him? Well, it’s a very 
strange thing, but Queensmead was telling me this morn- 
ing that one of Mr. Glenthorpe’s workmen had a grudge 
against him. He’s a chap named Hyson, the local ne’er- 
do-well, who was almost starving when Mr. Glenthorpe 
came to the district. Glenthorpe was warned against 
employing him, but the fellow got round him with a 
piteous tale, and he put him on. He proved to be just 
as ungrateful as the average British workman, and 
caused the old gentleman a lot of trouble. He seems 
to have been a bit of a sea lawyer, and tried to disaffect 
the other workmen by talking to them about socialism, 
and the rights of labour, and that sort of rubbish. When 
I heard this I had the chap brought to the inn and cross- 
questioned him & bit, but I am certain that he had 
nothing to do with the murder. He’s a weak, spineless 
sort of chap, full ®f argument and fond of beer — that’s 
his character in the village — and the last man in the 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


127 


world to commit a murder like this. I flatter myself,” 
added Superintendent Galloway in a tone of mingled 
self-complacency and pride, “that I know a murderer 
when I see one.” 

“Have you made any inquiries about umbrellas?” 
asked Colwyn. 

“Yes. Apparently Ronald did not bring an umbrella 
with him, though it’s cost me some trouble to establish 
that fact. It is astonishing how unobservant people are 
about such things as umbrellas, sticks, and handbags. 
Most people remember faces and clothes with some ac- 
curacy, but cannot recall whether a person carried an 
umbrella or walking-stick. Charles is not sure whether 
Ronald carried an umbrella, Benson thinks he did not, 
and Ann is sure he didn’t. The balance of evidence 
being on the negative side, I assume that Ronald did 
not bring an umbrella to the inn, because it was more 
likely to have been noticed if he had. I next inquired 
about the umbrellas in the house. At first I was told 
there were only two — a cumbrous, Robinson Crusoe 
sort of affair, kept in the kitchen and used by the ser- 
vant, and a smaller one, belonging to Benson’s daughter. 
I have examined both. The covering of the girl’s um- 
brella is complete. Ann’s is rent in several places, but 
the covering is blue, whereas the piece of umbrella cov- 
ering we found adhering to Mr. Glenthorpe’s window 
is black. While I was questioning Ann she suddenly re- 
membered that there was another umbrella in that lum- 
ber-room upstairs. We went upstairs to look for it, but 
we couldn’t find it, though Ann says she saw it there a 
day or two before the murder. I think we may as- 
sume that Ronald took it.” 

“But Ronald was a stranger to the place. How 
would he know the umbrella was in the lumber-room?” 


128 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


said Colwyn, who had followed Galloway’s narrative 
with close attention. 

“The door of the lumber-room stands ajar. Ronald 
probably looked in from curiosity, and saw the um- 
brella.” 

The easy assurance with which Superintendent Gallo- 
way dismissed or got over difficulties which interfered 
with his own theory did not commend itself to Colwyn, 
but he did not pursue the point further. 

“Is the umbrella still missing?” he asked. 

“Yes. It seems that even a murderer cannot be 
trusted to return an umbrella.” Superintendent Gallo- 
way laughed shortly at his grim joke and walked away 
to supervise the preparations for the inquest. 

The coroner presently arrived from Heathfield in a 
small runabout motor-car which he drove himself, with 
a tall man sitting beside him, and a short pursy young 
man in the back seat nursing a portable typewriter 
and an attache case on his knees. Toiling in the rear, 
some distance behind the car, was a figure on a bicycle, 
which subsequently turned out to be the reporter of the 
Heathfield local paper, who had come over with in- 
structions from one of the London agencies to send a 
twenty line report of the inquest for the London press. 
In peace times “specials” would probably have been 
despatched from the metropolis to “do a display story,” 
and interview some of the persons concerned, but the 
war had discounted by seventy-five per cent the value of 
murders as newspaper “copy.” 

The coroner, a short, stout, commonplace little man, 
jumped out of the car as soon as it stopped, and bustled 
into the inn with an air of fussy official importance, 
leaving his companions to follow. 

“Good day, Galloway,” he exclaimed, as that officer 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


129 

came forward to greet him. “I hope you've got every- 
thing ready." 

“Everything’s ready, Mr. Edgehill. Do you intend 
to commence before lunch?" 

“Of course I do. Are you aware that it is war-time? 
How many witnesses have you?" 

“Five, sir. Their statements have all been taken." 

“Then I shall go straight through — it seems a simple 
case — merely a matter of form, from what I have heard 
of it. I have another inquest at Downside at four 
o’clock. Where’s the body? Where’s the jury? Up- 
stairs? Doctor" — this to the tall thin man who had sat 
beside him in the runabout — “will you go upstairs with 
Queensmead and make your examination? Pendy" — 
this to the young man with tfye typewriter and attache 
case — “get everything ready and swear in the jury. Gal- 
loway will show you the room. What’s that? Oh, 
that’s quite all right" — this in reply to some murmured 
apology on the part of Superintendent Galloway for 
the mental incapacity of the jury — “we ought to be 
glad to get juries at all — in war-time." 

Colwyn had feared that the result of the inquest was 
a foregone conclusion the moment he saw the coroner 
alighting from his motor-car outside the inn. Ten 
minutes later, when the little man had commenced his 
investigations, he realised that the proceedings were 
merely a formal compliance with the law, and in no 
sense of the word an inquiry. 

Mr. Edgehill, the coroner, was one of those people who 
seized upon the war as a pretext for the exercise of their 
natural proclivity to interfere in other people’s affairs. 
He took the opportunity that every inquest gave him 
to lecture the British public on their duties and responsi- 
bilities in war-time. The body on which he was sitting 


130 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


formed his text, the jury was his congregation, and the 
newspaper reporters the vehicles by which his admoni- 
tions were conveyed to the nation. Mr. Edgehill saw a 
shirker in every suicide, national improvidence in a 
corpse with empty pockets, and had even been able to 
discover a declining war morale in death by misadven- 
ture. He thanked God for air raids and food queues 
because they brought the war home to civilians, and he 
was never tired of asserting that he lived on half the 
voluntary ration scale, did harder work, felt ten years 
younger, and a hundred times more virtuous, in conse- 
quence. 

If he did not actually insert the last clause his look 
implied a superior virtue to his fellow creatures, and 
was meekly accepted as such. He never held an in- 
quest without introducing some remarks upon unin- 
temed aliens, the military age, Ireland and conscription, 
soldiers’ wives and drinking, the prevalence of bigamy, 
and other popular war-time topics. In short, Mr. Edge- 
hill, like many other people, had used the war to emerge 
from a chrysalis existence as a local bore into a butter- 
fly career as a public nuisance. In that capacity he was 
still good “copy” in some of the London newspapers, 
and was even occasionally referred to in leading articles 
as a fine example of the sturdy country spirit which Lon- 
doners would do well to emulate. 

Before commencing his inquiry into the death of Mr. 
Glenthorpe, the coroner indignantly expressed his sur- 
prise that a small hamlet like Flegne could produce so 
many able-bodied men to serve on a jury in war-time. 
But after ascertaining that all the members of the jury 
were over military age, with the exception of one man 
who was afflicted with heart disease, he suffered the in- 
quest to proceed. 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


131 

The evidence of the innkeeper and the waiter was a 
repetition of the story they had told to the chief con- 
stable on the preceding day. Constable Queensmead, in 
his composed way, related the action he had taken from 
the time of his visit to Durrington in order to acquaint 
Superintendent Galloway with the fact of the murder. 

The only additional evidence brought forward was 
given by two of the men who had been in the late Mr. 
Glenthorpe’s employ. These men, Backlos and Duney, 
had found the track of the footprints in the clay near the 
pit on going to work the previous morning, and after the 
discovery that Mr. Glenthorpe was missing from the 
inn, Duney had been let down into the pit by a rope, and 
had brought up the body. Both these men told their 
story, with a wealth of unlettered detail, and Backlos, 
who was one of the aboriginals of the district, added his 
personal opinion that t’oud ma’aster mun ’a’ been very 
dead afore the chap got him in the pit, else he would ’a’ 
dinged one of the chap’s eyes in, t’oud ma’aster not 
bein’ a man to be taken anywhere against his will. How- 
ever the chap that carried him must ’a’ been powerful 
strong, because witness’s own arms were begunnin’ ter 
ache good tidily just a-howdin’ him up to the rope when 
they wor being a-hawled out the pit. 

The coroner, in his summing up, dwelt upon the strong 
circumstantial evidence against Ronald, and the folly 
of the deceased in withdrawing a large sum of money 
from the bank for the purpose of carrying out scientific 
research in war-time. “Had he invested that money in 
war bonds he would have probably been alive to-day,” 
said Mr. Edgehill gravely. The jury had no hesitation 
in returning a verdict of wilful murder against James 
Ronald. 

The coroner, the doctor, the clerk carrying the type- 


132 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


writer and the attache case, and Superintendent Gallo- 
way departed in the runabout motor-car shortly after- 
wards. Before evening a mortuary van, with two men, 
appeared from Heathfield and removed the body of the 
murdered man. 


CHAPTER XII 


If the inmates of the inn felt any surprise at Col- 
wyn’s remaining after the inquest, they did not betray it. 
That evening Ann nervously intercepted him to ask 
if he would have a partridge for his dinner, and Col- 
wyn, remembering the shortness of the inn larder, re- 
plied that a partridge would do very well. Later on 
Charles served it in the bar parlour, and waited with 
his black eyes fixed on Colwyn’s lips, sometimes antici- 
pating his orders before they were uttered. He brought 
a bottle of claret from the inn cellar, assuring Colwyn in 
his soft whisper that he would find the wine excellent, 
and Colwyn, after sampling it, found no reason for 
disagreeing with the waiter’s judgment. 

At the conclusion of the meal Colwyn sent for the 
innkeeper, and asked him a number of questions about 
the district and its inhabitants. The innkeeper inti- 
mated that Flegne was a poor place at the best of times, 
but the war had made it worse, and the poorer folk — 
the villagers who lived in the beachstone cottages — were 
sometimes hard-pressed to keep body and soul together. 
They did what they could, eking out their scanty earn- 
ings by eel-fishing on the marshes, and occasionally snar- 
ing a few wild fowl. Mr. Glenthorpe’s researches in 
the district had been a godsend because of the employ- 
ment he had given, which had brought a little ready 
money into the place. 

It was obvious to Colwyn’s alert intelligence that the 
innkeeper did not care to talk about his dead guest. 

133 


134 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


There was no visible reluctance — indeed, it would have 
been hard to trace the sign of any particular emotion 
on his queer, birdlike face — but his replies were slow in 
coming when questioned about Mr Glenthorpe, and he 
made several attempts to turn the conversation in an- 
other direction. When he had finished a glass of wine 
Colwyn offered him, he got up from the table with the 
remark that it was time for him to return to the bar. 

“I will go with you,” said Colwyn. “It will help to 
pass away an hour.” 

There were about a dozen men in the bar — agricul- 
tural labourers and fishermen — clustered in groups of 
twos and threes in front of the counter, or sitting on 
stools by the wall, drinking ale by the light of a smoky 
oil lamp which hung from the rafters. The fat deaf 
waiter was in the earthy recess behind the counter, 
drawing ale into stone mugs. 

A loud voice which had been holding forth ceased 
suddenly as Colwyn entered. The inmates of the bar 
regarded him questioningly, and some resentfully, as 
though they considered his presence an intrusion. But 
Colwyn was accustomed to making himself at home in 
all sorts of company. He walked across the bar, called 
for some whisky, and, while it was being served, ad- 
dressed a friendly remark to the nearest group to him. 
One of the men, a white-bearded, keen-eyed Norfolk 
man, answered his question civilly enough. He had 
asked about wild fowl shooting in the neighbourhood, 
and the old man had been a water bailiff on the Broads 
in his younger days. The question of sport will draw 
most men together. One after another of the villagers 
joined in the conversation, and were soon as much at 
home with Colwyn as though they had known him from 
boyhood. Some of them were going eel-fishing that 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


135 


night, and Colwyn violated the provisions of the “no 
treating’’ order to give them a glass of whisky to keep 
out the cold of the marshes. The rest of the tap room 
he regaled with ale. 

From these Norfolk fishermen Colwyn learnt many of 
the secrets of the wild and many cunning methods of 
capturing its creatures, but the real object of his visit 
to the bar — to discover whether any of the frequenters 
of the Golden Anchor had ever seen Ronald in the dis- 
trict before the evening of the murder — remained un- 
satisfied. He was a stranger to “theer” parts, the men 
said, in response to questions on the subject. 

But “theer” parts were limited to a mile or so of the 
marshland in which they spent their narrow, lonely lives. 
Their conversation revealed that they seldom went out- 
side that narrow domain. Durrington, which was little 
more than ten miles away, was only a name to them. 
Many of them had not been as far as Leyland for months. 
They spent their days catching eels in the marsh canals, 
or in setting lobster and crab traps outside the break- 
water. The agricultural labourers tilled the same patch 
of ground year after year. They had no recreations ex- 
cept an occasional night at the inn ; their existence was a 
lifelong struggle with Nature for a bare subsistence. 
Most of them had been born in the beachstone cot- 
tages where their fathers had been born before them, 
and most of them would die, as their fathers had died, 
in the little damp bedrooms where they had first seen 
the light, passing away, as their fathers had passed away, 
listening to the sound of the North Sea restlessly beat- 
ing against the breakwater. That sound was never out 
of their ears while they lived, and it was the dirge to 
which they died. Such was their life, but they knew no 
other, and wished for none. 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


136 

Colwyn \yas early astir the following morning, and 
after breakfast went out. His purpose was to try to 
discover anything which would throw light on Ronald’s 
appearance at Flegne. With that object he scoured the 
country for some miles in the direction of Heathfield, 
for he deemed the possibility of Ronald having come by 
that route worth inquiring into. But his time was 
wasted; none of his inquiries brought to light anything 
to suggest that Ronald had ever been in the district be- 
fore. 

When he returned to the village the day was more 
than half spent. As he entered the inn, he encountered 
Charles, who stopped when he saw him. 

“There are two men in the bar asking to see you, sir/’ 
he said, in his soft whisper. “Duney and Backlos are 
their names. They say they saw you in the bar last 
night, and they would like to speak to you privately, if 
you have no objection.” 

“Show them into the bar parlour,” the detective said. 
“And, Charles, you might ask Ann to let me have a little 
lunch when they are gone.” 

Colwyn proceeded to the bar parlour. A moment or 
two afterwards the waiter ushered in two men and with- 
drew, closing the door after him. 

In response to Colwyn’s request, his two visitors seated 
themselves awkwardly, but they seemed to have con- 
siderable difficulty in stating the object of their visit. 
Duney, one of the men who had helped to recover Mr. 
Glenthorpe’s body from the pit, was a short, thickset, 
hairy-faced man, with round surprised eyes, which he 
kept intently fixed upon the detective’s face, as though 
seeking inspiration for speech from that source. The 
other man, Backlos, was a tall, hawk-featured man with a 
sweeping black moustache, who needed only gaudy habili- 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


137 

ments to make him the ideal pirate king of the comic 
opera stage. It was he who spoke first. 

“If you please, ma’aster, we uns come to you thinkin’ 
as you might gi’ us a bit o’ advice. ,, 

“About somefin’ we seed last night/’ explained Mr. 
Duney, finding his own voice at the sound of his com- 
panion’s. 

“I thowt ’ow ’twas agreed ’tween us I wor to tell the 
gentleman, bor ?” growled the pirate king, turning a pair 
of dusky eyes on his companion. “You alius have a way 
o’ overdoin’ things, you know, Dick.” 

“Right, bor, right,” replied Mr. Duney. “Yow oughter 
know I only wanted to help yow out, Billy.” 

“I dawn’t want onny helpin’ out,” replied the pirate. 
“It’s loike this ’ere, ma’aster,” he continued, turning 
again to Colwyn. “Arter Dick and I left the Anchor 
las’ night, thowt we’d be walkin’ a spell. We wor a 
talkin’ o’ th’ murder at th’ time, and wonderin’ what we 
wor to do fur another job o’ work, things bein’ moighty 
bad heerabouts, when, as we neared top o’ th’ rise, we 
heered the rummiest kind o’ noise a man ever heerd, 
cornin’ from that theer wood by th’ pits. Dick says to 
me, in a skeered kind of voice, ‘That’s fair a rum un/ 
says he. There wornt much mune at th’ time, but we could 
see things clar enough, and thow we looked around us 
we couldn’t see a livin’ thing a movin’ either nigh th’ 
woods nor on th’ ma’shes. While we looked we seed a 
big harnsee rise out o’ th’ woods and go a flappin’ away 
across th’ ma’shes. Then all of a suddint we saw some- 
fin’ come a-wamblin’ outer the shadder o’ the wood, and 
run along by th’ edge of ut. We couldn’t make out a’ 
furst what it moight be, thow for sure we got a rare 
fright. For my part, I thowt it might a’ been ole Black 
Shuck, thow th’ night didn’t seem windy enough for un.” 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


138 

“Stop a bit,” said Colwyn. “What do you mean by 
Black Shuck? Oh, I remember. It’s a Norfolk tradition 
or ghost story, isn’t it? Black Shuck is supposed to be 
a big black dog, with one eye in the middle of the head, 
who runs without sound and howls louder than the wind. 
Whoever meets him is sure to die before the year is out.” 

“That’s him,” said Mr. Backlos, affirming, with a grave 
nod of his head, his own profound belief in the canine 
apparition in question. “My grandfeyther seen un once 
not a hundred yards from the very spot were we wor 
standin’ last night, and, sure enough, he died afore three 
months wor out. Dick and I couldn’t tell what it wor 
we see creepin’ out o’ th’ shadder o’ th’ wood, an’ to tell 
yow th’ trewth, ma’aster, we didn’t care to look agen. 
I asked Dick if he didn’t think it wor Black Shuck. 
'Naw daywt,’ says Dick, 'if it ain’t somefin’ worse.’ 
'What do’st a’ mean, bor?’ says I. 'Well,’ says Dick 
slowly like, ‘it might be the sperrit from th’ pit, for ’twas 
in no mortal man to holler out like that cry we just 
heered.’ Wornt those yower words, bor?” 

Mr. Duney, thus appealed to, nodded portentously, as 
though to indicate that his words were well justified. 

“Never mind the spirit from the pit,” said Colwyn. 
“Go on with your story.” 

“Well, ma’aster, just as we wor walkin’ away from th’ 
wood as fast as ever we could, th’ mune come out from 
behind th’ shadder of a cloud, and threw a light right 
ower th’ wood. We just happened to give a glance round 
ahind us at th’ time, to see if we wor bein’ follered, and, 
by its light, we saw a man a creepin’ back into th’ wood.” 

“A man ? Are you sure it was a man ?” 

“There’s no manner o’ doubt about that, ma’aster. Wo 
both saw it once, and we didn’t wait to look again. We 
run as hard as we could pile to Dick’s cottage by the 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


139 


ma’shes, and got inside and stood listenin’ to heer if we 
were bein’ follered. Dick says to me, says ’e, 'S’posen it 
wor the chap who murdered owd Mr. Glenthorpe at the 
Anchor ?’ I thowt as much meself, but a’ tried to laugh 
it off, and says to Dick, 'What fa should it be him ? He’s 
far enough away by this time, for we s’arched the place 
round fur miles, and we took in that theer wood where 
we just -see un.’ 'We never s’arched th’ wood,’ says 
Dick, 'leastways, not proper, an’ it’s a rare hidin’ place 
for un.’ 'So it be, to be sure,’ says I. ‘If he sees that 
there light we’ll be browt out from heer dead men,’ says 
Dick. 'So we will, for sartin,’ says I. ‘Let’s put out 
th’ light, so th’ bloody-minded murderer won’t ha’ nar- 
thin’ to go by if he ain’t seen it yet.’ So we put out th’ 
light and stayed theer till th’ mornin’, when we went out 
to work, and then when I seed Dick later we thowt we’d 
come and tell you all about it, seein’ as yower a gentle- 
man, and in consiquence a man of lamin’, and might 
p’rhaps tell us what we’d better do.” 

“You have certainly done the proper thing in disclos- 
ing what you have seen,” said the detective, after a 
thoughtful pause. “But why have you come to me in 
the matter? It seems to me that the proper course to 
pursue would be to lay your information before Con- 
stable Queensmead.” 

The two men exchanged a glance of conscious embar- 
rassment. Then Mr. Backlos, with the air of a man 
who had made up his mind to take the bull by the horns, 
blurted out: 

“It’s like this, ma’aster. We be in a bit o’ a fix about 
that. Yow see, last night we were out arter conies, and 
thow I can swar we were out in th’ open and not lookin’ 
for conies on annybody’s land, cos Dick an’ I have al- 
ready bin fined ten bob for snarin’ conies on Farmer 


140 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


Cranley’s land, an’ if we went to Queensmead he moight 
think we’d been a snarin’ there again. So Dick says to 
me, says he, ‘Why not see the chap wot came into th’ 
Anchor bar last night ? Annybody can see wi’ half an eye 
that he’s a real swell, for didn’t he stand treat all round 
— an’ wot he says we’ll go by, and ’e won’t treat us 
dirty, whatever he says, though, mind ye, bor, there’s 
narthin’ to gi’ away. So let’s go to thissun, an’ tell un 
all about it.’ ” 

“I also tol’ yow, Billy, that if thar be a reward out for 
this chap wot killed Mr. Glenthorpe, thissun ’ud tell us 
how to get it without sharin’ wi’ Queensmead, who does 
narthin’ but take th’ bread owt o’ ower mouths, he bein’ 
so sharp about th’ conies. For if this chap in th’ woods 
is the one wot killed owd Mr. Glenthorpe, we have a 
right to th’ money for cotchin’ un. Didn’t I say that, 
Billy?” 

“Yow did, bor, yow did; them wor yower vaery 
words,” acquiesced Mr. Backlos. 

“I think you had better leave the matter in my hands,” 
said Colwyn, with difficulty repressing a smile at this 
exceedingly Norfolk explanation. “And now, you had 
better have a drink, for I am sure you must be dry after 
all that talk.” 

The men, after drinking Colwyn’s health in two mugs 
of ale, departed with placid countenances, and Colwyn 
was left to meditate over the news they had imparted. 
The result of his meditations was that he presently went 
forth in search of Police Constable Queensmead. 

The constable lived in the village street — in a beach- 
stone cottage which was in slightly better repair than its 
neighbours, and much better kept. There were white 
curtains in the windows, and in the garden a few late 
stocks and hardy climbing roses were making a brave 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


141 

effort to bloom in depressing surroundings. It was 
Queensmead who answered the door to the detective’s 
knock, and he led the way inside to his little office when 
he saw who his visitor was. 

“I do not think these chaps saw anything except what 
their own fears created,” he said, after Colwyn had told 
him as much of the two men’s story as he saw fit to 
impart. “I searched the wood thoroughly the day after 
the murder. Ronald was not there then.” 

“He may have come back since.” 

Queensmead’s dark eyes lingered thoughtfully on the 
detective’s face, as though seeking to gather the meaning 
underlying his words. 

“Why should he do such a foolish thing, sir?” he 
asked. 

“It is not always easy to account for a man’s actions.” 

“It is hard to account for a man wanted by the police 
running his head into a noose.” 

“Ronald may not know he is wanted by the police.” 

“Why, of course he must know. If he doesn’t ” 

Queensmead broke off suddenly and looked at the de- 
tective queerly, as if suddenly realising all that the re- 
mark implied. “You must have some strange ideas about 
this case,” he added slowly. 

“I have, but we won’t go into them now,” said the de- 
tective, with a slight smile. He appreciated the fact 
that the other was, to use an American colloquialism, 
“quick on the uptake.” “Your immediate duty is clear.” 

“You mean I should search the wood again?” said 
Queensmead, with the same quick comprehension as be- 
fore. “Very well. Will you come with me?” 

Colwyn nodded, and Queensmead, without more ado, 
took a revolver and a pair of handcuffs from a cup- 
board, slipped them into his pockets, and announced that 


142 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


he was ready. He opened the door for his visitor to 
precede him, and they set forth. 

The hut circles on the rise looked more desolate than 
ever in the waning afternoon light. The excavations 
commenced by Mr. Glenthorpe had been abandoned, and 
a spade left sticking in the upturned earth had rusted 
in the damp air. The track of the footprints to the pit 
in which the body had been flung still showed distinctly 
in the clay, and the splash of blood gleamed dully on 
the edge of the hole. On the other side of the pit the 
trees of the wood stood in stunted outline against a 
lowering black sky. 

The two men entered the wood silently. The trees 
were of great age, the trunks thick and gnarled, with 
low twisted boughs, running and interlacing in every 
direction. So thickly were they intertwined that it was 
twilight in the sombre depths of the wood, although the 
fierce winds from the North Sea had already stripped 
the upper branches of leaves. The ground was covered 
with a rank and rotting undergrowth, from which tiny 
spirals of vapour, like gnomes’ fires, floated upwards. 
The silence was absolute; even the birds of the coast 
seemed to shun the place, which looked as if it had been 
untrodden since the days when the beast men of the Stone 
Age prowled through its dim recesses to the hut circles 
on the rise. 

Colwyn and Queensmead searched the wood and the 
matted undergrowth as they progressed, closely scrutin- 
ising the ferny hollows, looking up into the trees, ex- 
amining the thickets and clumps of shrubs. They had 
reached the centre of the wood, and were picking their 
way through a rank growth of nettles which covered the 
decayed bracken, when Colwyn experienced a mental 
perception as tangible as a cold hand placed upon the 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


143 


brow of a sleeper. He had the swift feeling that there 
was somebody else besides themselves in the solitude of 
the wood — somebody who was watching them. He looked 
around him intently, and his eyes fell upon a screen of 
interlaced branches which grew on the other side of 
the dip they were traversing. Without any conscious 
effort on his own part, his eyes travelled to the thickest 
part of the obstruction, and encountered another pair of 
eyes gazing at him steadily from the depths of the leafy 
screen. That gaze held his own for a moment, and 
then vanished. He looked again, but the screen was 
now unbroken, and not the rustle of a leaf betrayed the 
person who was concealed within. 

Colwyn touched Queensmead’s arm. 

“There is somebody hiding in those bushes ahead of 
us,” he whispered. 

Queensmead’s eyes ran swiftly along the clump of 
bushes ahead, and he raised his revolver. 

“Come out, or Til fire !” he cried. 

His sharp command shattered the heavy silence like 
the crack of a firearm. The next moment the figure 
of a man broke from the twisted branches and walked 
down the slope towards them. It was Ronald. 

“Put up your hands, Ronald,” commanded Queens- 
mead sternly, poising the revolver at the advancing man. 
“Put them up, or I'll fire.” 

“Fire if you like.” 

The words fell from Ronald’s lips wearily, but he did 
not put up his hands. His clothes were torn and stained, 
his face gaunt and lined, and in his tired eyes was the 
look of a man who had lived in the solitudes with no 
other companion but despair. Queensmead stepped for- 
ward and with a swift gesture snapped the handcuffs 
on his wrist. 


144 THE SHRIEKING PIT 

“I arrest you for the murder of Roger Glenthorpe, ,, 
he said. 

“I could have got away from you if I had wanted,” 
said the young man wearily. “But what was the use? 
I’m glad it is over.” 

“I warn you, Ronald, that any statement you now make 
may be used against you on your trial,” broke in Queens- 
mead harshly. 

“My good fellow, I know all about that.” The sudden 
note of imperiousness in his manner reminded Colwyn 
of the way in which he had snubbed Sir Henry Durwood 
in his bedroom at the Durrington hotel three mornings 
before. But it was in his previous indifferent tone that 
the young man added: “Have either of you a spirit 
flask?” 

Police Constable Queensmead eyed his captive with the 
critical eye of an officer of justice upon whom devolved 
the responsibility of bringing his man fit and well to 
trial. Ronald’s face had gone haggard and white, and he 
lurched a little in his walk. Then he stood still, and re- 
garded the two men weakly. 

“I’m about done up,” he admitted. 

“We’d better take him to the inn and get him some 
brandy,” said Queensmead. “Take his other arm, will 
you ?” 

They returned slowly with Ronald between them. He 
did not ask where they were taking him, but stumbled 
along on their supporting arms like a man in a dream, 
with his eyes fixed on the ground. When clear of the 
wood, Queensmead led his prisoner past the pit where 
Mr. Glenthorpe’s body had been cast, but Ronald did not 
even glance at the yawning hole alongside of him. It was 
when they were descending the slope towards the inn 
that Colwyn noticed a change in his indifferent de- 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


145 


meanour. He raised his head and surveyed the inn with 
sombre eyes, and then his glance travelled swiftly to his 
pinioned hands. For a moment his frame stiffened 
slightly, as though he were about to resist being taken 
farther. But if that were his intention the mood passed. 
The next moment he was walking along with his previous 
indifference. 

When they reached the inn Queensmead asked Colwyn 
in a whisper to keep an eye on the prisoner while he went 
inside and got the brandy. As soon as he had gone 
Colwyn turned to Ronald and earnestly said: 

“You may not know me, apart from our chance meeting 
at Durrington, but I am anxious to help you, if you are 
innocent.” 

“I have heard of you. You are Colwyn, the private 
detective.” 

“That makes it easier then, for you will know that I 
have no object in this case except to bring the truth to 
light. If you have anything to say that will help me to 
do that I beg of you to do so. You may safely trust me.” 

“I know that, Mr. Colwyn, but I have nothing to say.” 
Ronald spoke wearily — almost indifferently. 

“Nothing?” Astonishment and disappointment were 
mingled in the detective’s voice. 

“Nothing.” 

Before anything more could be said Queensmead re- 
appeared from the inn with some brandy in a glass. 
Ronald raised it to his lips with his manacled hands, then 
turned away in response to an imperative gesture from 
Queensmead. Colwyn stood where he was for a moment, 
watching them, then turned to enter the inn. As he did 
so, his eyes fell upon the white face of Peggy, framed 
in the gathering gloom of the passage, staring with fright- 
ened eyes at the retreating forms of the village constable 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


146 

and his prisoner. She slipped out of the door and took 
a few hurried steps in their direction. But when she 
reached the strip of green which bordered the side of 
the inn she stopped with a despairing gesture, as though 
realising the futility of her effort, and turned to retrace 
her steps. Colwyn advanced rapidly towards her. 

“I want to speak to you,” he said curtly. 

She stood still, but there was a prescient flash in her 
eyes as she looked at him. 

“You were in the dead man’s room last night,” he 
said. “What were you doing there?” 

“I do not know that it is any business of yours,” she 
replied, in a low tone. 

“I do not think you had better adopt that attitude,” he 
said quietly. “You know you had no right to go into 
that room. I do not wish to threaten you, but you had 
better tell the truth.” 

She stood silent for a moment, as though weighing his 
words. Then she said : 

“I will tell you why I went there, not because I am 
afraid of anything you can do, but because I am not 
afraid of the truth. I went there because of a promise 
I made to Mr. Glenthorpe. He was very kind and good 
to me — when he was alive. Only two days before he 
met his death he asked me, if anything happened to him 
at any time, to go to his bedroom and remove a packet 
I would find in a little secret drawer in his writing table, 
and destroy it without opening it. He showed me where 
the packet was, and how to open the drawer. After 
he was dead I thought of my promise, and tried several 
times to slip into the room and get the packet, but there 
was always somebody about. So I went in last night, 
after everybody was in bed, because I thought the police 
might find the packet in searching his desk, and I should 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


147 

have been very unhappy if I had not been able to keep my 
promise.” 

“How did you get into the room? The door was 
locked, and Superintendent Galloway had the key.” 

“He left it on the mantelpiece downstairs. I saw it 
there earlier in the evening, and when he was out of the 
room I slipped in and took it, and put the key of my own 
room in its place.” 

“What did you do with the packet you removed?” 

“I took it across the marshes and threw it into the 
sea,” she replied, looking steadily into his face. 

“Why did you go to that trouble? Why did not not 
bum it?” 

“I had no fire, and I dared not keep it till the morning. 
Besides, there were rings and things in the packet — his 
dead wife’s jewellery. He told me so.” 

He looked at her keenly. She had told him the truth 
about her visit to the breakwater, but how much of the 
rest of her story was true? 

“So that is your explanation?” he said. 

“Yes.” 

“I am sorry to say that I find it difficult to believe. If 
you are deceiving me you are very foolish.” 

“I have told you the truth, Mr. Colwyn,” she said, 
and, turning away, returned to the inn. 


CHAPTER XIII 


Ronald’s strange silence after his arrest decided Col- 
wyn to relinquish his investigations and return to Dur- 
rington. His tacit admissions, coupled with the damaging 
evidence against him, enforced conviction in the young 
man’s guilt in spite of the detective’s previous belief to 
the contrary. In assisting Queensmead in his search Col- 
wyn had cherished the hope that Ronald, if captured, 
would declare his innocence and gladly respond to his 
overture of help. But, instead of doing so, Ronald had 
taken up an attitude which was suspicious in the highest 
degree, and one which caused the detective to falter in 
his belief that the Glenthorpe murder case was a much 
deeper mystery than the police imagined. Ronald’s atti- 
tude, by its accordance with the facts previously known 
or believed about the case, belittled the detective’s own 
discoveries, and caused him to come to the conclusion 
that it was hardly worth while to go farther into it. 

Nevertheless, it was in a perplexed and puzzled state 
of mind that he returned to Durrington, and his per- 
plexity was not lessened by a piece of information given 
to him at luncheon by Sir Henry. The specialist started 
up from his seat as soon as he saw the detective, and 
made his way across to his table. 

“My dear fellow,” he burst out, “I have the most amaz- 
ing piece of news. Who do you think this chap Ronald 
turns out to be? None other than James Ronald Pen- 
reath, only son of Sir James Penreath— Penreath of 
Twelvetrees — one of the oldest families in England, dat- 
148 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


149 


ing back before the Conquest! Not very much money, 
but very good blood — none better in England, in fact. 
The family seat is in Berkshire, and the family take their 
name from a village near Reading, where a battle was 
fought in 800 odd between the Danes and Saxons under 
Ethelwulf. You won’t get a much older ancestry than that. 
Sir James married the daughter of Sir William Shirley, 
the member for Carbury, Cheshire — her family was not 
so good as his, but an honourable county family, never- 
theless. This young man is their only child. A nice 
disgrace he’s brought on the family name, the foolish 
fellow!” 

“Who told you this?” asked Colwyn. 

“Superintendent Galloway told me last night. The de- 
scription of the young man was published in the London 
press in order to assist his capture, and it appears it was 
seen by the young lady to whom he is affianced, Miss 
Constance Willoughby, who is at present in London, en- 
gaged in war work. I have never met Miss Willoughby, 
but her aunt, Mrs. Hugh Brewer, with whom she is 
staying at Lancaster Gate, is well-known to me. She is 
an immensely wealthy woman, who devotes her life to 
public works, and moves in the most exclusive philan- 
thropic circles. The young lady was terribly distressed 
at the similarity of details in* the description of the 
wanted man and that of her betrothed, particularly the 
scar on the cheek. Although she could not believe they 
referred to Mr. Penreath, she deemed it advisable to 
communicate with the Penreath family solicitor, Mr. 
Oakham, of Oakham and Pendules. 

“Mr. Oakham called up Superintendent Galloway on 
the trunk line yesterday, to make inquiries, and shortly 
afterwards the news came through of Ronald’s arrest. 
Superintendent Galloway was rather perturbed at learn- 


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150 

in g that the arrested man resembled the description of 
the heir of one of the oldest baronetcies in England, and 
sought me to ask my advice. As he rather vulgarly put 
it, he was scared at having flushed such high game, and 
he thought, in view of my professional connection with 
some of the highest families in the land, that I might 
be able to give him information which would save him 
from the possibility of making a mistake — if such a pos- 
sibility existed/’ 

“Superintendent Galloway did not seem much worried 
by any such fears the last time I saw him,” said Colwyn. 
“His one idea then was to catch Ronald and hang him 
as speedily as possible.” 

“The case wears another aspect now,” replied Sir 
Henry gravely, oblivious of the irony in the detective’s 
tones. “To arrest a nobody named Ronald is one thing, 
but to arrest the son of Penreath of Twelvetrees is quite 
a different matter. The police — quite rightly, in my 
opinion — wish to guard against the slightest possibility 
of mistake.” 

“There is no certainty that Ronald is the son of Sir 
James Penreath,” said Colwyn thoughtfully. “Printed 
descriptions of people are very misleading.” 

“Exactly my contention,” replied Sir Henry eagerly. 
“I told Galloway that the best way to settle the point was 
to let the young lady see the prisoner. The police are 
acting on the suggestion. Mr. Oakham is coming down 
with Miss Willoughby and her aunt from London by 
the afternoon train. They will go straight to Heath- 
field, where they will see Ronald before his removal to 
Norwich gaol. Superintendent Galloway is driving over 
from here in a taxicab to meet them at the station and 
escort them to the lock-up, and I am going with him. It 
is a frightful ordeal for two highly-strung ladies to have 


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151 

to undergo, and my professional skill may be needed to 
help them through with it. I shall suggest that they 
return here with me afterwards, and stay for the night 
at the hotel, instead of returning to London immediately. 
The night’s rest will serve to recuperate their systems 
after the worry and excitement.” 

“No doubt,” said Colwyn, who began to see how Sir 
Henry Durwood had built up such a flourishing practice 
as a ladies’ specialist. 

Sir Henry, having imparted his information, promised 
to acquaint him with the result of the afternoon’s inter- 
view, and bustled out of the breakfast room in response 
to the imperious signalling of his wife’s eye. 

It was after dinner that evening, in the lounge, that 
Sir Henry again approached Colwyn, smoking a cigar, 
which represented the amount of a medical man’s fee 
in certain London suburbs. But as Sir Henry counted 
his fees in guineas, and not in half-crowns, he could 
afford to be luxurious in his smoking. He took a seat 
beside the detective and, turning upon him his profession- 
ally portentous “all is over” face, remarked: 

“There is no mistake. Ronald is Sir James Penreath’s 
son.” 

“Miss Willoughby identified him, then ?” 

“It was a case of mutual identification. Mr. Penreath, 
to give him his proper name, was brought under escort 
into the room where we were seated. He started back 
at the sight of Miss Willoughby — I suppose he had no 
idea whom he was going to see — and said, ‘Why, Con- 
stance !’ The poor girl looked up at him and exclaimed, 
‘Oh, James, how could you?’ and burst into a flood of 
tears. It was a very painful scene.” 

“I have no doubt it was — for all concerned,” was Col- 
wyn’s dry comment. “Why did Miss Willoughby greet 


152 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


her betrothed husband in that way, as though she were 
convinced of his guilt? What does she know about the 
case ?” 

“Superintendent Galloway prepared her mind for the 
worst during the ride from the station to the gaol. She 
asked him a number of questions, and he told her that 
there was no doubt that the man she was going to see 
was the man who had murdered Mr. Glenthorpe. ,, 

“I suspected as much. But what else transpired during 
the interview? How did Penreath receive Miss Wil- 
loughby's remark?” 

“Most peculiarly. He seemed about to speak, then 
checked himself with a half smile, looked down on the 
ground, and said no more. Superintendent Galloway 
signed to the policemen to remove him, and we withdrew. 
The interview did not last more than a minute or so.” 

“Miss Willoughby did not see him alone, then?” 

“No. Galloway told her that she would not be per- 
mitted to see him alone.” 

“And nothing more was said on either side while Pen- 
reath was in the room?” 

“Nothing. Penreath’s attitude struck me as that of 
a man who did not wish to speak. He appeared self- 
conscious and confused, like a man with a secret to 
hide.” 

“Perhaps his silence was due to pride. After Miss 
Willoughby’s tactless remark he may have thought there 
was no use saying anything when his sweetheart believed 
him guilty.” Colwyn spoke without conviction ; the mem- 
ory of Penreath’s demeanour to him after his arrest was 
too fresh in his mind. 

“You wrong Miss Willoughby. She is only too 
anxious to catch at any straw of hope. When she learnt 
that you had been making some investigations into the 


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153 


case she expressed an anxiety to see you. She and her aunt 
yielded to my advice, and returned here to spend the night 
at the hotel before going back to London. As they did 
not feel inclined to face the ordeal of public scrutiny 
after the events of the day they are dining in private, 
and they have asked me to take you to their room when 
you are at liberty. Mr. Oakham has gone to Norwich, 
where he will stay for some days to prepare the defence 
of this unhappy young man, but he is coming here in the 
morning to see the ladies before they depart for London. 
He asked me to tell you that he would like to see you 
also.” 

“I shall be glad to see him, and Miss Willoughby as 
well. Have the ladies asked you your opinion of the 
case ?” 

“Naturally they did. I gave them the best comfort I 
could by hinting that in my opinion Mr. Penreath is not 
in a state of mind at present in which he can be held 
responsible for his actions. I did not say anything about 
epilepsy — the word is not a pleasant one to use before 
ladies.” 

“Did you tell them this in front of Galloway?” 

“Certainly not. A professional man in my position 
cannot be too careful. I am glad now that I was so 
circumspect about this matter in my dealings with the 
police — very glad indeed. It was my duty to tell Mr. 
Oakham, and I did so. He was interested in what I told 
him — exceedingly so, and was anxious to know if I had 
given my opinion of Penreath’s condition to anybody else. 
I mentioned that I had told you — in confidence.” 

“And it was then, no doubt, that Mr. Oakham said he 
would like to see me. I fancy I gather his drift. And 
now shall we visit Miss Willoughby ?” 

“Yes, I should say the ladies will be expecting us,” 


154 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


said Sir Henry, looking at a fat watch with jewelled 
hands which registered golden minutes for him in Harley 
Street. He beckoned a waiter, and asked him to conduct 
them to Mrs. Brewer’s sitting-room. The waiter led 
them along a corridor on the first floor, tapped deferen- 
tially, opened the door noiselessly in response to a femi- 
nine injunction to “come in,” waited for the gentlemen to 
enter, and then closed the door behind them. 

Two ladies rose to greet them. One was small and 
overdressed, with fluffy hair and China blue eyes. She 
carried some knitting in her hand, and a pet dog under 
her arm. Colwyn had no difficulty in identifying her 
with the frequent photographs of Mrs. Brewer which ap- 
peared in Society and illustrated papers. She belonged 
to a class of women who took advantage of the war to 
advertise themselves by philanthropic benefactions and 
war work, but she was able to distance most of her com- 
petitors for newspaper notoriety by reason of her wealth. 
Her niece, Miss Constance Willoughby, was of a differ- 
ent type. She was tall and graceful, with dark eyes and 
level brows. A straight nose and a firm chin indicated 
that their possessor was not lacking in a will of her own. 
Her manner was self-possessed and assured — a trifle too 
much so for a sensitive girl in the circumtances, Colwyn 
thought. Then he remembered having read in some 
paper that Miss Willoughby was one of the leaders of the 
new feminist movement which believed that the war had 
brought about the complete emancipation of English 
womanhood, and with it the right to possess and display 
those qualities of character which hitherto were supposed 
to be peculiarly masculine. It was perhaps owing to her 
advocacy of these claims that Miss Willoughby felt her- 
self called upon to display self-possession and self-con- 
trol at a trying time. Colwyn, appraising her with his 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


155 


clear eye as Sir Henry introduced him, found himself 
speculating as to the reasons which had caused Penreath 
and her to fall in love with one another. 

“Please sit down, Mr. Colwyn,” said Mrs. Brewer, re- 
suming a comfortable arm-chair in front of the fire, and 
adjusting the Pekingese on her lap. “I am so grateful 
to you for coming to see us in this unconventional way. I 
have been so anxious to see you ! Everybody has heard 
of you, Mr. Colwyn — you’re so famous. It was only the 
other day that I was reading a long article about you in 
some paper or other. I forget the name of the paper, but 
I remember that it said a lot of flattering things about 

you and your discoveries in crime. It said Oh, you 

naughty, naughty Jellicoe.” This to the dog, which had 
become entangled in the skein of wool on her lap, and 
was making frantic efforts to free itself. “Bad little 
doggie, you’ve ruined this sock, and some poor soldier 
will have to go with bare feet because you’ve been 
naughty! Are you a judge of Pekingese, Mr. Colwyn? 
Don’t you think Jellicoe a dear?” 

“Do you mean Sir John Jellicoe, Mrs. Brewer?” 

“Of course not! I mean my Pekingese. I’ve named 
him after our great gallant commander, because it is 
through him we are all able to sleep safe and sound in 
our beds these dreadful nights.” 

“Sir John Jellicoe ought to feel flattered,” said Colwyn 
gravely. 

“Yes, I really think he should,” replied Mrs. Brewer 
innocently. “Jellicoe is not a pretty name for a dog, 
but I think we should all be patriotic just now. But tell 
me what you think of this dreadful case, Mr. Colwyn. 
I am so frightfully distressed about it that I really don’t 
know what to do. How could Mr. Penreath do such a 
shocking thing? Why didn’t he go back to the front, if 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


156 

he had to kill somebody, instead of hiding away from 
everybody and murdering this poor old man in this wild 
spot? Such a disgrace to us all 

“Mr. Penreath has been in the Army, then?” asked 
Colwyn. 

“Of course. Didn’t you know? He was in Mesopo- 
tamia, but was sent to the West Front recently, where he 
won the D.S.O. for an act of great gallantry under heavy 
fire, but was shortly afterwards invalided out of the 
Army. It was in all the papers at the time.” 

“You forget, my dear lady, that Mr. Penreath did not 
disclose his full name while he was staying here,” inter- 
posed Sir Henry solemnly. “I myself was in complete 
ignorance of his identity till last night.” 

“Why, of course — you told me this afternoon. My 
poor head! Whatever induced Mr. Penreath to do such 
a thing as to conceal his name ? So common and vulgar ! 
What motive could he have? What do you think his 
motive was, Mr. Colwyn?” 

“I think, Aunt Florence, as your nerves are bad, that 
you had better permit me to talk to Mr. Colwyn,” said 
Miss Willoughby, speaking for the first time. “Other- 
wise we shall get into a worse tangle than the Pekingese.” 

“I am sure I shall be only too relieved if you will talk 
to Mr. Colwyn,” rejoined the elder woman. “My head 
is really not equal to the task — my nerves are so fright- 
fully unstrung.” 

Mrs. Brewer returned to the task of untangling the 
dog from the knitting wool, and the girl faced the detec- 
tive earnestly. 

“Mr. Colwyn,” she said, “I understand you have been 
investigating this terrible affair. Will you tell me what 
you think of it? Do you believe that Mr. Penreath is 
guilty? You need not fear to be frank with me.” 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


157 


“I will not hesitate to be so. I shall be pleased to give 
you my conclusions about this case — so far as I have 
formed any — but I should be greatly obliged if you 
would answer a few questions first. That might help me 
to clear up one or two points on which I am at present in 
doubt, and make my statement to you clearer.” 

“Ask me any questions you wish.” 

“Thank you. In the first place, how long is it since 
Mr. Penreath returned from the front, invalided out of 
the Army?” 

“About two months ago.” 

“Was he wounded?” 

“No. I understand that he broke down through shell- 
shock, and the doctors said that it would be some time 
before he completely recovered. I do not know the de- 
tails. Mr. Penreath was very sensitive and reticent about 
the matter, and so I forbore questioning him.” 

Colwyn nodded sympathetically. 

“I understand. Have you noticed much difference in 
his demeanour since he returned from the front?” 

“That question is a little difficult to answer,” said the 
girl, hesitating. 

“I can quite understand how you feel about it. My 
motive in asking the question is to see if we can ascer- 
tain why Penreath came to Norfolk under a concealed 
name, and then wandered over to this place, Flegne, in 
an almost penniless condition, when he had plenty of 
friends who would have supplied his needs, and, I should 
say, had money of his own in the bank, for it is quite 
certain that he would be in receipt of an allowance from 
his father. He acted most unusually for a young man 
of his standing and position, and I am wondering if shell- 
shock let him in that restless, unsettled, reckless condi- 
tion which is one of its worst effects.” 


158 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


“I have seen so little of him since he returned from 
the front that it is difficult for me to answer you,” said 
the girl, after a pause. “He went down to Berkshire to 
his father’s place on his return, and stayed there a 
month. Then he came to London, and we met several 
times, but rarely alone. I am very deeply engaged in war 
work, and was unable to give him much of my time. 
When I did see him he struck me as rather moody and 
distrait, but I put that down to his illness, and the fact 
that he must naturally feel unhappy at his forced inaction. 
My friends paid him much attention and sent him many 
invitations — in fact, they would have made quite a fuss 
of him if he had let them — and, of course, he had friends 
of his own, but he didn’t seem to want to go anywhere, 
and he told me once or twice that he wished people would 
let him alone. I pointed out to him that he had his duty 
to do in Society as well as at the front, but he said he 
disliked Society, particularly in war-time. About three 
weeks ago he told me one night at a dance that he was 
sick of London, and thought he would be better for a 
change of air. He was looking rather pale, and I agreed 
he would be the better for a change. I asked him where 
he intended going, and he said he thought he would try 
the east coast — he didn’t say what part. He left me with 
the intention of going away the next day. That was the 
last I saw of him — until to-day.” 

“You got no letter from him?” 

“I have not heard from him — or of him — until I saw 
his description published in the London newspapers as 
that of a criminal wanted by the police.” 

Miss Willoughby uttered the last sentence in some bit- 
terness, with a sparkle of resentment in her eyes. It was 
apparent that she considered she had been badly treated 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


159 

by her lover, and that his arrest had hardened, instead of 
softening, her feelings of resentment. 

“I am much obliged to you for answering my questions, 
Miss Willoughby,” said the detective. “As I told you 
before, they are not dictated by curiosity, but in the hope 
of eliciting some information which would throw light on 
this puzzling case. ,, 

“A puzzling case ! You consider it a puzzling case, 
Mr. Colwyn?” She glanced at him with a more eager 
and girlish expression than he had yet seen on her face. 
“I understood from the police officer that there was no 
room for doubt in the matter. Sir Henry Durwood 
shares the police view.” She turned a swift questioning 
glance in the specialist’s direction. 

Sir Henry caught the glance, and felt it incumbent 
upon himself to utter a solemn commonplace. 

“I beg of you not to raise false hopes in Miss Will- 
oughby’s breast, Mr. Colwyn,” he said. 

“I have no intention of doing so,” returned the detec- 
tive. “On the other hand, I protest against everybody con- 
demning Penreath until it is certain he is guilty. And 
now, Miss Willoughby, I will tell you what I have dis- 
covered.” 

He entered upon a brief account of his investigations 
at the inn, with the exception that he omitted the visit 
of Peggy to the murdered man’s chamber and her subse- 
quent explanation. Miss Willoughby listened attentively, 
and, when he had concluded, remarked: 

“Do you think the wax and tallow candle-grease 
dropped in the room suggests the presence of two per- 
sons ?” 

“I feel sure that it does.” 

“And who do you think the other was?” 

“It is not yet proved that Penreath was one of them.” 


160 THE SHRIEKING PIT 

She flushed under the implied reproof, and hurriedly 
added : 

“Have you acquainted the police with your discoveries, 
Mr. Colwyn ?” 

“I have, and I am bound to say that they attach very 
little importance to them.” 

“Do you propose to go any further with your investi- 
gations ?” 

“I would prefer not to answer that question until I 
have seen Mr. Oakham to-morrow.” 


CHAPTER XIV 


When Colwyn went in to lunch the following day 
after a walk on the front, he found Sir Henry awaiting 
him in the lounge with a visitor whose identity the de- 
tective guessed before Sir Henry introduced him. 

“This is Mr. Oakham,” said Sir Henry. “I have told 
him of your investigation into this painful case which has 
brought him to Norfolk.” 

“An investigation in which you helped,” said Colwyn, 
with a smile. 

“I am afraid it would be stretching the fable of the 
mouse and the lion to suggest that I was able to help 
such a renowned criminal investigator as yourself,” re- 
turned Sir Henry waggishly. “When Mr. Oakham learnt 
that you had been investigating this case he expressed a 
strong desire to see you.” 

“I am returning to London by the afternoon express, 
Mr. Colwyn,” said the solicitor. “I should be glad if 
you could spare me a little of your time before I go.” 

“Certainly,” replied Colwyn, courteously. “It had bet- 
ter be at once, had it not? You have not very much 
time at your disposal.” 

“If it does not inconvenience you,” replied Mr. Oak- 
ham politely. “But your lunch ” 

“That can wait,” said the detective. “I feel deeply 
interested in this case of young Penreath.” 

“Mr. Oakham saw him this morning before coming 
over,” said Sir Henry. “He is quite mad, and refuses to 
161 


1 62 THE SHRIEKING PIT 

say anything. Therefore, we have come to the con- 
clusion ” 

'‘Really, Sir Henry, you shouldn’t have said that.” Mr. 
Oakham’s tone was both shocked and expostulatory. 

“Why not?” retorted Sir Henry innocently. “Mr. Col- 
wyn knows all about it — I told him myself. I thought 
you wanted him to help..you ?” 

“I am aware of that, but, my dear sir, this is an ex- 
tremely delicate and difficult business. As Mr. Pen- 
reath’s professional adviser, I must beg of you to exer- 
cise more reticence.” 

“Then I had better go and have my lunch while you 
two have a chat,” said Sir Henry urbanely, “or I shall 
only be putting my foot in it again. Mr. Oakham, I 
shall see you before you go.” Sir Henry moved off in 
the direction of the luncheon room. 

“Perhaps you will come to my sitting-room,” said 
Colwyn to Mr. Oakham. “We can talk quietly there.” 

“Thank you,” responded Mr. Oakham, and he went 
with the detective upstairs. 

Mr. Oakham, of Oakham and Pendules, Temple Gar- 
dens, was a little white-haired man of seventy, attired in 
the sombre black of the Victorian era, with a polished 
reticent manner befitting the senior partner of a firm of 
solicitors owning the most aristocratic practice in Eng- 
land ; a firm so eminently respectable that they never ren- 
dered a bill of costs to a client until he was dead, when 
the amount of legal expenses incurred during his life- 
time was treated as a charge upon the family estate, and 
deducted from the moneys accruing to the next heir, 
who, in his turn, was allowed to run his allotted course 
without a bill from Oakham and Pendules. They were a 
discreet and dignified firm, as ancient as some of the 
names whose family secrets were locked away in their 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


163 

office deed boxes, and reputed to know more of the inner 
history of the gentry in Burke’s Peerage than all the 
rest of the legal profession put together. 

The arrest of the only son of Sir James Penreath, of 
Twelvetrees, Berks, on a charge of murder, had shocked 
Mr. Oakham deeply. Divorces had come his way in 
plenty, though he remembered the day when they were 
considered scandalous in good families. But the mod- 
ern generation had changed all that, and Mr. Oakham 
had since listened to so many stories of marital wrongs, 
and had assisted in obtaining so many orders for resti- 
tution of conjugal rights, that he had come to regard 
divorce as fashionable enough to be respectable. He 
was intimately versed in most human failings and follies, 
and a past master in preventing their consequences com- 
ing to light. Financial embarrassments he was well used 
to — they might almost be said to be his forte — for many 
of his clients had more lineage than money, but the 
crime of murder was a thing outside his professional 
experience. 

The upper classes of the present generation had, in 
this respect at least, improved on the morals of their 
freebooting ancestors, and murder had gone so com- 
pletely out of fashion among the aristocracy that Mr. 
Oakham had never been called upon to prepare the de- 
fence of a client charged with killing a fellow creature. 
Mr. Oakham regarded murder as an ungentlemanly 
crime. He believed that no gentleman would commit 
murder unless he were mad. Since his arrival in Nor- 
folk he had come to the conclusion that young Penreath 
was not only mad, but that he had committed the murder 
with which he stood charged. Sir Henry Durwood had 
been responsible for the first opinion, and the police had 
helped him to form the second. Two interviews he had 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


164 

had with his client since his arrest had strengthened and 
deepened both convictions. 

It was in this frame of mind that Mr. Oakham seated 
himself in the detective’s sitting room. He accepted a 
cigar from Colwyn’s case, and looked amiably at his 
companion, who waited for him to speak. The inter- 
view had been of the solicitor’s seeking, and it was for 
him to disclose his object in doing so. 

“This is a very unfortunate case, Mr. Colwyn,” the 
solicitor remarked. 

“Yes; it seems so,” replied Colwyn. 

“I am afraid there is not the slightest doubt that this 
unhappy young man has committed this murder.” 

“You have arrived at that conclusion?” 

“It is impossible to arrive at any other conclusion, in 
view of the evidence.” 

“It is purely circumstantial. I thought that perhaps 
Penreath would have some statement to make which 
would throw a different light on the case.” 

“I will be frank with you, Mr. Colwyn,” said the 
solicitor. “You are acquainted with all the facts of the 
case, and I hope you will be able to help us. Penreath’s 
attitude is a very strange one. Apparently he does not 
apprehend the grave position in which he stands. I am 
forced to the conclusion that he is suffering from an 
unhappy aberration of the intellect, which has led to 
his committing this crime. His conduct since coming to 
Norfolk has not been that of a sane man. He has hid- 
den himself away from his friends, and stayed here 
under a false name. I understand that he behaved in 
an eccentric and violent way in the breakfast room of 
this hotel on the morning of the day he left for the 
place where the murder was subsequently committed.” 

“You have learnt this from Sir Henry, I presume?” 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


165 

“Yes. Sir Henry has conveyed to me his opinion, 
based on his observation of Mr. Penreath’s eccentricity 
at the breakfast table the last morning of his stay here, 
that Mr. Penreath is an epileptic, liable to attacks of 
furor epilepticus — a phase of the disease which some- 
times leads to outbreaks of terrible violence. He 
thought it advisable that I should know this at once, in 
view of what has happened since. Sir Henry informed 
me that he confided a similar opinion to you, as you were 
present at the time, and assisted him to convey Penreath 
upstairs. May I ask what opinion you formed of his 
behaviour at the breakfast table, Mr. Colwyn?” 

“I thought he was excited — nothing more.” 

“But the violence, Mr. Colwyn! Sir Henry Durwood 
says Penreath was about to commit a violent assault on 
the people at the next table when he interfered.” 

“The violence was not apparent — to me,” returned the 
detective, who did not feel called upon to disclose his 
secret belief that Sir Henry had acted hastily. “Apart 
from the excitement he displayed on this particular 
morning, Penreath seemed to me a normal and average 
young Englishman of his class. I certainly saw no signs 
of insanity about him. It occurred to me at the time 
that his excitement might be the outcome of shell-shock. 
We had had an air raid two nights before, and some 
shell-shock cases are badly affected by air raids. I have 
since been informed that Penreath was invalided out of 
the Army recently, suffering from shell-shock.” 

“In Sir Henry's opinion the shell-shock has aggravated 
a tendency to the disease.” 

“Has Penreath ever shown any previous signs of epi- 
lepsy ?” 

“Not so far as I am aware, but his mother developed 
the disease in later years, and ultimately died from it. 


i66 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


Her illness was a source of great worry and anxiety to 
Sir James. And epilepsy is hereditary/’ 

“Pathologists differ on that point. I know something 
of the disease, and I doubt whether Penreath is an epi- 
leptic. He showed none of the symptoms which I have 
always associated with epilepsy.” 

“An eminent specialist like Sir Henry is hardly likely 
to be mistaken. The fact that Penreath seemed a sane 
and collected individual to your eye proves nothing. 
Epileptic attacks are intermittent, and the sufferer may 
appear quite sane between the attacks. Epilepsy is a 
remarkable disease. A latent tendency to it may exist 
for years without those nearest and dearest to the suf- 
ferer suspecting it, so Sir Henry says. Penreath’s case 
is a very strange and sad one.” 

“It is a strange case in every way,” said Colwyn ear- 
nestly. “Why should a young man like Ronald go over 
to this remote Norfolk village, where he had never been 
before, and murder an old man whom he had never seen 
previously? The police theory that this murder was 
committed for the sake of £300 which the victim had 
drawn out of the bank that day seems incredible to me, 
in the case of a young man like Penreath.” 

“The only way of accounting for the whole unhappy 
business is on Sir Henry’s hypothesis that Penreath is 
mad. In acute epileptic mania there are cases in which 
there is a seeming calmness of conduct, and these are the 
most dangerous of all. The patient walks about like a 
man in a dream, impelled by a force which he cannot 
resist, and does all sorts of things without conscious pur- 
pose. He will take long walks to places he has never 
seen, will steal money or valuables, and commit murder 
or suicide with apparent coolness and cunning. Sir 
Henry describes this as automatic action, and he says 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


167 

that it is a notable characteristic of the form of epileptic 
mania from which Penreath is suffering. You will ob- 
serve that these symptoms fit in with all the facts of the 
case against Penreath. The facts, unfortunately, are so 
clear that there is no gainsaying them.” 

“It seems so now,” said Colwyn thoughtfully. “Yet, 
when I was investigating the facts yesterday, I came 
across several points which seemed to suggest the possi- 
bility of an alternative theory to the police theory.” 

“I should like to know what those points are.” 

“I will tell you.” 

The detective proceeded to set forth the result of his 
visit to the inn, and the solicitor listened to him with 
close attention. When he had finished Mr. Oakham re- 
marked : 

“I am afraid there is not much in these points, Mr. 
Colwyn. Your suggestion that there were two persons 
in the murdered man’s room is interesting, but you have 
no evidence to support it. The girl’s explanation of her 
visit to the room is probably the true one. Far be it 
from me, as Penreath’s legal adviser, to throw away the 
slightest straw of hope, but your conjectures — for, to 
my mind, they are nothing more — are nothing against the 
array of facts and suspicious circumstances which have 
been collected by the police. And even if the police case 
were less strong, there is another grave fact which we 
cannot overlook.” 

“You mean that Penreath refuses to say anything?” 
said Colwyn. 

“He appears to be somewhat indifferent to the out- 
come,” returned the lawyer guardedly. 

“It is his silence which baffles me,” said Colwyn. “I 
saw him alone after his arrest, and told him I was willing 
to help him if he could tell me anything which would 


1 68 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


assist me to establish his innocence — if he were innocent. 
He replied that he had nothing to say.” 

“What you tell me deepens my conviction that Pen- 
reath does not realise the position in which he is placed, 
and cannot be held accountable for his actions.” 

“Is it your intention to plead mental incapacity at the 
trial ?” 

“Sir Henry Durwood has offered to give evidence that, 
in his opinion, Penreath is not responsible for his actions. 
The Penreath family is under a debt of gratitude to Sir 
Henry. I consider it little short of providential that Sir 
Henry was staying here at the time.” Like most law- 
yers, Mr. Oakham had a firm belief in the interposition 
of Providence — particularly in the affairs of the families 
of the great. “And that is the reason for my coming 
over here to see you this morning, Mr. Colwyn. You 
were present at the breakfast table scene — you witnessed 
this young man’s eccentricity and violence. The Pen- 
reath family is already under a debt of gratitude to you 
— will you increase the obligation? In other words, will 
you give evidence in support of the defence at the trial ?” 

“You want me to assist you in convincing the jury that 
Penreath is a criminal lunatic,” said Colwyn. “That is 
what your defence amounts to. It is a grave responsi- 
bility. Doctors and specialists are sometimes mistaken, 
you know.” 

“I am afraid there is very little doubt in this case. 
Here is a young man of birth and breeding, who hides 
from his friends under an assumed name, behaves in 
public in an eccentric manner, is turned out of his hotel, 
goes to a remote inn, and disappears before anybody is 
up. The body of a gentleman who occupied the room 
next to him is subsequently discovered in a pit close by, 
and the footprints leading to the pit are those of our 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 169 

young friend. The young man is subsequently arrested 
close to the place where the body was thrown, and not 
then, or since, has he offered his friends any explanation 
of his actions. In the circumstances, therefore, I shall 
avail myself of Sir Henry’s evidence. In my own mind 
— from my own observation and conversation with Pen- 
reath — I am convinced that he cannot be held responsible 
for his actions. In view of the tremendously strong case 
against him, in view of his peculiar attitude to you — and 
others — in the face of accusation, and in view of his 
previous eccentric behaviour, I shall take the only pos- 
sible course to save the son of Penreath of Twelvetrees 
from the gallows. I had hoped, Mr. Colwyn, that you, 
who witnessed the scene at this hotel, and subsequently 
helped Sir Henry Durwood convey this unhappy young 
man upstairs, would see your way clear to support Sir 
Henry’s expert opinion that this young man is insane. 
Your reputation and renown would carry weight with 
the jury.” 

“I am sorry, but I am afraid you must do without 
me,” replied Colwyn. “In view of Penreath’s silence I 
can come to no other conclusion, though against my bet- 
ter judgment, than that he is guilty, but I cannot take 
upon myself the responsibility of declaring that he is in- 
sane. In spite of Sir Henry Durwood’s opinion, I can- 
not believe that he is, or was. It will be a difficult de- 
fence to establish in the case of Penreath. If you wish 
the jury to say that Penreath is the victim of what 
French writers call epilepsie larvee, in which an outbreak 
of brutal or homicidal violence takes the place of an 
epileptic fit, with a similar break in the continuity of con- 
sciousness, you will first have to convince the judge that 
Penreath’s preceding fits were so slight as to permit the 
possibility of their being overlooked, and you will also 


170 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


have to establish beyond doubt that the break in his con- 
sciousness existed from the time of the scene in the 
hotel breakfast-room until the time the murder was 
committed. The test of that state is the unintelligent 
character of some of the acts of the sufferer. In my 
opinion, a defence of insanity is not likely to be success- 
ful. Personally, I shall go no further in the case, but 
I cannot give up my original opinion that the whole of 
the facts in this case have not been brought to light. 
Probably they never will be — now.” 


CHAPTER XV 


Although no hint of the defence was supposed to 
transpire, the magic words “No precedent” were whis- 
pered about in legal circles as the day for PenreatlTs trial 
approached, and invested the case with more than or- 
dinary interest in professional eyes. Editors of London 
legal journals endeavoured to extract something definite 
from Mr. Oakham when he returned to London to brief 
counsel and prepare the defence, but the lunches they 
lavished on him in pursuit of information might have 
been spent with equal profit on the Sphinx. 

The editors had to content themselves with sending 
shorthand writers to Norwich to report the case fully for 
the benefit of their circle of readers, whose appetite for 
a legal quibble was never satiated by repetition. 

On the other hand, the case aroused but languid inter- 
est in the breasts of the ordinary public. The news- 
papers had not given the story of the murder much 
prominence in their columns, because murders were only 
good copy in war-time in the slack season between mili- 
tary offensives, and, moreover, this particular case lacked 
the essentials of what modem editors call, in American 
journalese jargon, “a good feature story.” In other 
words, it was not sufficiently sensational or immoral to 
appeal to the palates of newspaper readers. It lacked 
the spectacular elements of a filmed drama; there was no 
woman in the case or unwritten law. 

It was true that the revelation of the identity of the 
accused man had aroused a passing interest in the case, 
171 


1 72 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


bringing it up from paragraph value on the back page to 
a “two-heading item” on the “splash” page, but that in- 
terest soon died away, for, after all, the son of a Berk- 
shire baronet was small beer in war’s levelling days, 
when peers worked in overalls in munition factories, and 
personages of even more exalted rank sold pennyworths 
of ham in East-end communal kitchens. 

Nevertheless, because of the perennial interest which 
attaches to all murder trials, the Norwich Assizes Court 
was filled with spectators on the dull drizzling November 
day when the case was heard, and the fact that the ac- 
cused was young and good-looking and of gentle birth 
probably accounted for the sprinkling of well-dressed 
women amongst the audience. The younger ones eyed 
him with sympathy as he was brought into the dock : his 
good looks, his blue eyes, his air of breeding, his well-cut 
clothes, appealed to their sensibilities, and if they had 
been given the opportunity they would have acquitted 
him without the formality of a trial as far “too nice a 
boy” to have committed murder. 

To the array of legal talent assembled together by the 
golden wand of Costs the figure of the accused man had 
no personal significance but the actual facts at issue 
entered as little into their minds as into the pitying hearts 
of the female spectators. The accused had no individual 
existence so far as they were concerned : he was merely 
a pawn in the great legal game, of which the lawyers 
were the players and the judge the referee, and the side 
which won the pawn won the game. As this particular 
game represented an attack on the sacred tradition of 
Precedent, both sides had secured the strongest profes- 
sional intellects possible to contest the match, and the 
lesser legal fry of Norwich had gathered together to wit- 
ness the struggle, and pick up what points they could. 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


173 


The leader for the prosecution was Sir Herbert Tem- 
plewood, K.C., M.P., a political barrister, with a Society 
wife, a polished manner, and a deadly gift of cross- 
examination. With him was Mr. Grover Braecroft, a 
dour Scotch lawyer of fifty-five, who was currently be- 
lieved to know the law from A to Z, and really had an 
intimate acquaintance with those five letters which made 
up the magic word Costs. Apart from this valuable 
knowledge, he was a cunning and crafty lawyer, picked 
in the present case to supply the brains to Sir Herbert 
Templewood’s brilliance, and do the jackal work which 
the lion disdained. The pair were supported by a Crown 
Solicitor well versed in precedents — a little prim figure 
of a man who sat with so many volumes of judicial de- 
cisions and reports of test cases piled in front of him 
that only the upper portion of his grey head was visible 
above the books. 

The defence relied mainly upon Mr. Reginald Middle- 
heath, the eminent criminal counsel, who depended as 
much upon his portly imposing stage presence to bluff 
juries into an acquittal as upon his legal attainments, 
which were also considerable. Mr. Middleheath’s card- 
inal article of legal faith was that all juries were fools, 
and should be treated as such, because if they once got 
the idea into their heads that they knew something about 
the case they were trying they were bound to convict in 
order to sustain their reputation for intelligence. One 
of Mr. Middleheath’s favourite tricks for disabusing a 
jury of the belief that they possessed any common sense 
was, before addressing them, to stare each juryman in 
the face for half a minute or so in turn with his piercing 
penetrative eyes, accompanying the look with a pitying 
contemptuous smile, the gaze and the smile implying that 
counsel for the opposite side may have flattered them 


174 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


into believing that their intelligences were fit to try such 
an intricate case, but they couldn’t deceive him. 

Having robbed the jury of their self-esteem by this 
means, Mr. Middleheath would proceed to put them on 
good terms with themselves again by insinuating in per- 
suasive tones that the case was one calculated to perplex 
the most astute legal brain. He frankly confessed that 
it had perplexed him at first, but as he had mastered its 
intricacies the jury were welcome to his laboriously ac- 
quired knowledge in order to help them in arriving at a 
right decision. Mr. Middleheath’s junior was Mr. 
Garden Greyson, a thin ascetic looking lawyer whose 
knowledge of medical jurisprudence had brought him his 
brief in the case. Mr. Oakham sat beside Mr. Greyson 
with various big books in front of him. 

The judge was Mr. Justice Redington, whose presence 
on the bench was always considered a strengthening 
factor in the Crown case. Judges differ as much as or- 
dinary human beings, and are as human in their peculiari- 
ties as the juries they direct and the prisoners they try. 
There are good-tempered and bad-tempered judges, 
harsh and tender judges, learned and foolish judges, 
there are even judges with an eye to self-advertisement, 
and a few wise ones. Mr. Justice Redington belonged to 
that class of judges who, while endeavouring to hold the 
balance fairly between the Crown and the defence, see 
to it that the accused does not get overweight from the 
scales of justice. Such judges take advantage of their 
judicial office by cross-examining witnesses for the de- 
fence after the Crown Prosecutor has finished with them, 
in the effort to bring to light some damaging fact or 
contradiction which the previous examination has failed 
to elicit. In other respects, Mr. Justice Redington was 
a very fair judge, and he worked as industriously as any 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


175 


newspaper reporter, taking extensive notes of all his 
cases with a gold fountain pen, which he filled himself 
from one of the court inkstands whenever it ran dry. 
In appearance he was a florid and pleasant looking man, 
and his hobby off the bench was farming his own land 
and breeding prize cattle. 

There were the usual preliminaries, equivalent to the 
clearing of the course or the placing of the pieces, which 
bored the regular habitues of the court but whetted the 
appetites of the more unsophisticated spectators. First 
there was the lengthy process of empanelling a jury, with 
the inevitable accompaniment of challenges and objec- 
tions, until the most unintelligent looking dozen of the 
panel finally found themselves in the jury box. Then 
the Clerk of Arraigns gabbled over the charges: wilful 
murder of Roger Glenthorpe on 26th October, 1916, and 
feloniously stealing from the said Roger Glenthorpe the 
sum of £300 on the same date. To these charges the 
accused man pleaded “Not guilty” in a low voice. The 
jury were directed on the first indictment only, and Sir 
Herbert Temple wood got up to address the jury. 

Sir Herbert knew very little about the case, but his 
junior was well informed; and what Mr. Braecroft 
didn’t know he got from the Crown Solicitor, who sat 
behind the barristers’ table, ready to lean forward at the 
slightest indication and supply any points which were 
required. Under this system of spoon-feeding Sir Her- 
bert ambled comfortably along, reserving his showy 
paces for the cross-examination of witnesses for the 
defence. 

Sir Herbert commenced by describing the case as a 
straightforward one which would offer no difficulty to 
an intelligent jury. It was true that it rested on circum- 
stantial evidence, but that evidence was of the strongest 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


176 

nature, and pointed so clearly in the one direction, that 
the jury could come to no other conclusion than that the 
prisoner at the bar had committed the murder with which 
he stood charged. 

With this preamble, the Crown Prosecutor proceeded 
to put together the chain of circumstantial evidence 
against the accused with the deliberate logic of the legal 
brain, piecing together incidents, interpreting clues, prob- 
ing motives, and fashioning together the whole tremen- 
dous apparatus of circumstantial evidence with the intent 
air of a man building an unbreakable cage for a wild 
beast. As Colwyn had anticipated, the incident at the 
Durrington hotel had been dropped from the Crown 
case. That part of the presentment was confined to the 
statement that Penreath had registered at the hotel under 
a wrong name, and had left without paying his bill. The 
first fact suggested that the accused had something to 
hide, the second established a motive for the subsequent 
murder. 

Sir Herbert Templewood concluded his address in 
less than an hour, and proceeded to call evidence for the 
prosecution. There were nine witnesses: that strangely 
assorted pair, the innkeeper and Charles, the deaf waiter, 
Ann, the servant, the two men who had recovered Mr. 
Glenthorpe’s body from the pit, the Heathfield doctor, 
who testified as to the cause of death, Superintendent 
Galloway, who gave the court the result of the joint in- 
vestigations of the chief constable and himself at the 
inn, Police-Constable Queensmead, who described the 
arrest and Inspector Fredericks, of Norwich, who was 
in charge of the Norwich station when the accused was 
taken there from Flegne. In order to save another wit- 
ness being called, Counsel for the defence admitted that 
accused had registered at the Grand Hotel, Durrington, 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


1 77 

under a wrong name, and left without paying his bill. 

Mr. Middleheath cross-examined none of the witnesses 
for the prosecution except the last one, and his forensic 
restraint was placed on record by the depositions clerk 
in the exact words of the unvarying formula between 
bench and bar. “Do you ask anything, Mr. Middle- 
heath?” Mr. Justice Redington would ask, with punctili- 
ous politeness, when the Crown Prosecutor sat down 
after examining a witness. To which Mr. Middleheath 
would reply, in tones of equal courtesy: “I ask nothing, 
my lord.” Counsel’s cross-examination of Inspector 
Fredericks consisted of two questions, intended to throw 
light on the accused’s state of mind after his arrest. In- 
spector Fredericks declared that he was, in his opinion, 
quite calm and rational. 

Mr. Middleheath’s opening address to the jury for the 
defence was brief, and, to sharp legal ears, vague and 
unconvincing. Although he pointed out that the evidence 
was purely circumstantial, and that in the absence of 
direct testimony the accused was entitled to the benefit 
of any reasonable doubt, he did not attempt to controvert 
the statements of the Crown witnesses, or suggest that 
the Crown had not established its case. His address, 
combined with the fact that he had not cross-examined 
any of the Crown witnesses, suggested to the listening 
lawyers that he had either a very strong defence or none 
at all. The point was left in suspense for the time being 
by Mr. Justice Redington suggesting that, in view of 
the lateness of the hour. Counsel should defer calling 
evidence for the defence until the following day. As a 
judicial suggestion is a command, the court was ad- 
journed accordingly, the judge first warning the jury not 
to try to come to any conclusion, or form an opinion as 


178 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


to what their verdict should be, until they had heard the 
evidence for the prisoner. 

When the case was continued next day the first witness 
called for the defence was Dr. Robert Grey don, an 
elderly country practitioner with the precise professional 
manner of a past medical generation, who stated that he 
practised at Twelvetrees, Berkshire, and was the family 
doctor of the Penreath family. In reply to Mr. Middle- 
heath he stated that he had frequently attended the late 
Lady Penreath, the mother of accused, for fits or seizures 
from which she suffered periodically, and that the Lon- 
don specialist who had been called into consultation on 
one occasion had agreed with him that the seizures were 
epileptic. 

“I want to give every latitude to the defence,” said Sir 
Herbert Templewood, rising in dignified protest, “but I 
am afraid I cannot permit this conversation to go in. 
My learned friend must call the London specialist if he 
wants to get it in.” 

“I will waive the point as my learned friend objects,” 
said Mr. Middleheath, satisfied that he had “got it in” 
the jury’s ears, “and content myself with asking Dr. 
Greydon whether, from his own knowledge, Lady Pen- 
reath suffered from epilepsy.” 

“Undoubtedly,” replied the witness. 

“One moment,” said the judge, looking up from his 
notes. “Where is this evidence tending, Mr. Middle- 
heath?” 

“My lord,” replied Mr. Middleheath solemnly, “I wish 
the court to know all the facts on which we rely.” * 

The judge bowed his head and waved his gold foun- 
tain-pen as an indication that the examination might pro- 
ceed. The witness said that Lady Penreath was un- 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


179 


doubtedly an -epileptic, and suffered from attacks extend- 
ing over twenty years, commencing when her only son 
was five years old, and continuing till her death ten years 
ago. For some years the attacks were slight, without 
convulsions, but ultimately the grand mal became well 
developed, and several attacks in rapid succession ulti- 
mately caused her death. In the witness’s opinion epi- 
lepsy was an hereditary disease, frequently transmitted 
to the offspring, if either or both parents suffered 
from it. 

“Have you ever seen any signs of epilepsy in Lady 
Penreath’s son — the prisoner at the bar?” asked Sir 
Herbert, who began to divine the direction of the de- 
fence. 

“Never,” replied the witness. 

“Was he under your care in his infancy and boyhood? 
I mean were you called in to attend to his youthful ail- 
ments ?” 

“Yes, until he went to school.” 

“And was he a normal and healthy boy?” 

“Quite.” 

“Did you see him when he returned home recently?” 
asked Mr. Middleheath, rising to re-examine. 

“Yes.” 

“You are aware he was discharged from the Army 
suffering from shell-shock?” 

“Yes.” 

“And did you notice a marked change in him?” 

“Very marked indeed. He struck me as odd and for- 
getful at times, and sometimes he seemed momentarily to 
lose touch with his surroundings. He used to be very 
bright and good-tempered, but he returned from the war 
irritable and moody, and very silent, disliking, above all 
things, to be questioned about his experiences at the 


i8o 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


front. He used to be the very soul of courtesy, but 
when he returned from the front he refused to attend a 
'welcome home , at the village church and hear the vicar 
read a congratulatory address. ,, 

“I hope you are not going to advance the latter inci- 
dent as a proof of non compos mentis, Mr. Middleheath, ,, 
said the judge facetiously. 

In the ripples of mirth which this judicial sally 
aroused, the little doctor was permitted to leave the box, 
and depart for his native obscurity of Twelvetrees. He 
had served his purpose, so far as Mr. Middleheath was 
concerned, and Sir Herbert Templewood was too good 
a sportsman to waste skilful flies on such a small fish, 
which would do no honour to his bag if hooked. 

Sir Herbert Templewood and every lawyer in court 
were by now aware that the defence were unable to meet 
the Crown case, but were going to fight for a verdict of 
insanity. The legal fraternity realised the difficulties of 
that defence in a case of murder. It would be necessary 
not only to convince the jury that the accused did not 
know the difference between right and wrong, but to 
convince the judge, in the finer legal interpretation of 
criminal insanity, that the accused did not know the na- 
ture of the act he was charged with committing, in the 
sense that he was unable to distinguish whether it was 
right or wrong at the moment of committing it. The 
law, which assumes that a man is sane and responsible 
for his acts, throws upon the defence the onus of prov- 
ing otherwise, and proving it up to the hilt, before it 
permits an accused person to escape the responsibility of 
his acts. Such a defence usually resolves itself into a 
battle between medical experts and the counsel engaged, 
the Crown endeavouring to upset the medical evidence 
for the defence with medical evidence in rebuttal. 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


181 


The lawyers in court settled back with a new enjoy- 
ment at the prospect of the legal and medical hair-spilt- 
ting and quibbling which invariably accompanies an en- 
counter of this kind, and Crown Counsel and solicitors 
displayed sudden activity. Sir Herbert Templewood 
and Mr. Braecroft held a whispered consultation, and 
then Mr. Braecroft passed a note to the Crown Solicitor, 
who hurried from the court and presently returned 
carrying a formidable pile of dusty volumes, which he 
placed in front of junior counsel. The most uninter- 
ested person in court seemed the man in the dock, who 
sat looking into a vacancy with a bored expression on 
his handsome face, as if he were indifferent to the fight 
on which his existence depended. 

The next witness was Miss Constance Willoughby, 
who gave her testimony in low clear tones, and with per- 
fect self-possession. It was observed by the feminine 
element in court that she did not look at her lover in the 
dock, but kept her eyes steadily fixed on Mr. Middle- 
heath. Her story was a straightforward and simple 
one. She had become engaged to Mr. Penreath shortly 
before the war, and had seen him several times since he 
was invalided out of the Army. The last occasion was 
a month ago, when he called at her aunt’s house at 
Lancaster Gate. She had noticed a great change in him 
since his return from the front. He was moody and 
depressed. She did not question him about his illness, 
as she thought he was out of spirits because he had been 
invalided out of the Army, and did not want to talk 
about it. He told her he intended to go away for a 
change until he got right again — he had not made up his 
mind where, but he thought somewhere on the East 
Coast, where it was cool and bracing, would suit him 
best — and he would write to her as soon as he got settled 


1 82 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


anywhere. She did not see him again, and did not hear 
from him or know anything of his movements till she 
read his description in a London paper as that of a man 
wanted by the Norfolk police for murder. Her aunt, 
who showed her the paper, communicated with the Pen- 
reaths’ solicitor, Mr. Oakham. The following day she 
and her aunt were taken to Heathfield and identified the 
accused. 

“Your aunt took action to allay your anxiety, I under- 
stand?” said Mr. Heathfield, whose watchful eye had 
noted the unfavourable effect of this statement on the 
jury. 

The witness bowed. 

“Yes,” she replied. “I was terribly anxious, as I had 
not heard from Mr. Penreath since he went away. Any- 
thing was better than the suspense.” 

“You say accused was moody and depressed when you 
saw him?” asked Sir Herbert Templewood. 

“Yes.” 

“May I take it that there was nothing terrifying in 
his behaviour — nothing to indicate that he was not in his 
right mind?” 

“No,” replied the witness slowly. “He did not 
frighten me, but I was concerned about him. He cer- 
tainly looked ill, and I thought he seemed a little strange.” 

“As though he had something on his mind?” suggested 
Sir Herbert. 

“Yes,” assented the witness. 

“Were you aware that the accused, when he went to 
see you at your aunt’s home before he departed for Nor- 
folk, was very short of money?” 

“I was not. If I had known ” 

“You would have helped him — is that what you were 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 183 

going to say?” asked Mr. Middleheath, as Sir Herbert 
resumed his seat without pursuing the point. 

“My aunt would have helped Mr. Penreath if she had 
known he was in monetary difficulties.” 

“Thank you.” Mr. Middleheath sat down, pulling his 
gown over his shoulders. 

The witness was leaving the stand when the sharp au- 
thoritative voice of the judge stopped her. 

“Wait a minute, please, I want to get this a little 
clearer. You said you were aware that the accused was 
discharged from the Army suffering from shell-shock. 
Did he tell you so himself?” 

“No, my lord. I was informed so.” 

“Really, Mr. Middleheath ” 

The judge’s glance at Counsel for the Defence was so 
judicial that it brought Mr. Middleheath hurriedly to his 
feet again. 

“My lord,” he explained, “I intend to prove in due 
course that the prisoner was invalided out of the Army 
suffering from shell-shock.” 

“Very well.” The judge motioned to the witness that 
she was at liberty to leave the box. 

The appearance of Sir Henry Durwood in the box as 
the next witness indicated to Crown Counsel that the 
principal card for the defence was about to be played. 
Lawyers conduct defences as some people play bridge — 
they keep the biggest trump to the last. Sir Henry rep- 
resented the highest trump in Mr. Middleheath’s hand, 
and if he could not score with him the game was lost. 

Sir Henry seemed not unconscious of his importance 
to the case as he stepped into the stand and bowed to 
the judge with bland professional equality. His evi- 
dence-in-chief was short, but to the point, and amounted^ 
to a recapitulation of the statement he had made to 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


184 

Colwyn in Penreath’s bedroom on the morning of the 
episode in the breakfast-room of the Grand Hotel, 
Durrington. Sir Henry related the events of that morn- 
ing for the benefit of the jury, and in sonorous tones ex- 
pressed his professional opinion that the accused’s 
strange behaviour on that occasion was the result of an 
attack of epilepsy — petit mal, combined with furor epi- 
lepticus. 

The witness defined epilepsy as a disease of the 
nervous system, marked by attacks of unconsciousness, 
with or without convulsions. The loss of consciousness 
with severe convulsive seizures was known as grand mal, 
the transient loss of consciousness without convulsive 
seizures was called petit mal. Attacks of petit mal might 
come on at any time, and were usually accompanied by 
a feeling of faintness and vertigo. The general symp- 
toms were sudden jerkings of the limbs, sudden tremors, 
giddiness and unconsciousnes. The eyes became fixed, 
the face slightly pale, sometimes very red, and there was 
frequently some almost automatic action. In grand mal 
there was always warning of an attack, in petit mal there 
was no warning as a rule, but sometimes there was pre- 
monitory giddiness and restlessness. Furor epilepticus 
was a medical term applied to the violence displayed 
during attacks of petit mal, a violence which was much 
greater than extreme anger, and under its influence the 
subject was capable of committing the most violent out- 
rages, even murder, without being conscious of the act. 

“There is no doubt in your mind that the accused man 
had an attack of petit mal in the breakfast-room of the 
Durrington hotel the morning before the murder?” asked 
Mr. Middleheath. 

“None whatever. All the symptoms pointed to it. He 
was sitting at the breakfast table when he suddenly 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


185 

ceased eating, and his eyes grew fixed. The knife which 
he held in his hand was dropped, but as the attack in- 
creased he picked it up again and thrust it into the table 
in front of him — a purely automatic action, in my opin- 
ion. When he sprang up from the table a little while 
afterwards he was under the influence of the epileptic 
fury, and would have made a violent attack on the people 
sitting at the next table if I had not seized him. Uncon- 
sciousness then supervened, and, with the aid of another 
of the hotel guests, I carried him to his room. It was 
there I noticed foam on his lips. When he returned to 
consciousness he had no recollection of what had oc- 
curred, which is consistent with an epileptic seizure. I 
saw that his condition was dangerous, and urged him 
to send for his friends, but he refused to do so.” 

“It would have been better if he had followed your 
advice. You say it is consistent with epilepsy for him 
to have no recollection of what occurred during this 
seizure in the hotel breakfast room. What would a 
man's condition of mind be if, during an attack of petit 
mal, he committed an act of violence, say murder, for 
example ?” 

“The mind is generally a complete blank. Sometimes 
there is a confused sense of something, but the patient 
has no recollection of what has occurred, in my experi- 
ence.” 

“In this case the prisoner is charged with murder. 
Could he have committed this offence during another 
attack of furor epilepticus and recollect nothing about 
it afterwards? Is that consistent?” 

“Yes, quite consistent,” replied the witness. 

“Is epilepsy an hereditary disease?” 

“Yes.” 

“And if both parents, or one of them, suffered from 


1 86 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


epilepsy, would there be a great risk of the children suf- 
fering from it?” 

'‘Every risk in the case of both persons being affected; 
some probability in the case of one.” 

“What do you think would be the effect of shell-shock 
on a person born of one epileptic parent?” 

“It would probably aggravate a tendency to epilepsy, 
by lowering the general health.” 

“Thank you, Sir Henry.” 

Mr. Middleheath resumed his seat, and Sir Herbert 
Temple wood got up to cross-examine. 


CHAPTER XVI 


Sir Herbert Templewood did not believe the evidence 
of the specialist, and he did not think the witness be- 
lieved in it himself. Sir Herbert did not think any the 
worse of the witness on that account. It was one of 
the recognised rules of the game to allow witnesses to 
stretch a point or two in favour of the defence where the 
social honour of highly respectable families was in- 
volved. 

Sir Herbert saw in the present defence the fact that 
the hand of his venerable friend, Mr. Oakham, had not 
lost its cunning. Mr. Oakham was a very respectable 
solicitor, acting for a very respectable client, and he had 
called a very respectable Harley Street specialist — who, 
by a most fortuitous circumstance, had been staying at 
the same hotel as the accused shortly before the murder 
was committed — to convince the jury that the young man 
was insane, and that his form of insanity was epilepsy, 
a disease which had prolonged lucid intervals. 

A truly ingenious and eminently respectable defence, 
and one which, in his heart of hearts, perhaps, Sir Her- 
bert might not have been sorry to see succeed, for he 
knew Sir James Penreath of Twelvetrees, and was sorry 
to see his son in such a position. But he had his duty to 
perform, and that duty was to discredit in the eyes of 
the jury the evidence of the witness in the box, because 
juries were prone to look upon specialists as men to 
whom all things had been revealed, and return a verdict 
accordingly. 


187 


1 88 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


Sir Herbert made one mistake in his analysis of the 
defence. Sir Henry, at least, believed in his own evi- 
dence and took himself very seriously as a specialist 
Like most stupid men who have got somewhere in life. 
Sir Henry became self-assertive under the least sem- 
blance of contradiction, and he grew violent and red- 
faced under cross-examination. He would not hear of 
the possibility of a mistake in his diagnosis of the ac- 
cused’s symptoms, but insisted that the accused, when he 
saw him at the Durrington hotel, was suffering from an 
epileptic seizure, combined with furor epilepticus , and 
was in a state of mind which made him a menace to his 
fellow creatures. It was true he qualified his statements 
with the words “so far as my observation goes,” but the 
qualification was given in a manner which suggested 
to the jury that five minutes of Sir Henry Durwood’s 
observation were worth a month’s of a dozen ordinary 
medical men. 

Sir Henry’s vehement insistence on his infallibility 
struck Sir Herbert as a flagrant violation of the rules 
of the game. He did not accept the protestations as 
genuine; he thought Sir Henry was overdoing his part, 
and playing to the gallery. He grew nettled in his turn, 
and, with a sudden access of vigour in his tone, said: 

“You told my learned friend that it is quite consistent 
with the prisoner’s malady that he could have committed 
the crime with which he stands charged, and remember 
nothing about it afterwards. Is that a fact?” 

“Certainly.” 

“In that case, will you kindly explain how the prisoner 
came to leave the inn hurriedly, before anybody was up, 
the morning after the murder was committed? Why 
should he run away if he had no recollection of his act?” 

“I must object to my learned friend describing the 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


189 

accused’s departure from the inn as ‘running away/ ” 
said Mr. Middleheath, with a bland smile of protest. “It 
is highly improper, as nobody knows better than the 
Crown Prosecutor, and calculated to convey an alto- 
gether erroneous impression on the minds of the jury. 
There is not the slightest evidence to support such a 
statement. The evidence is that he saw the servant and 
paid his bill before departure. That is not running 
away.” 

“Very well, I will say hastened away,” replied Sir 
Herbert impatiently. “Why should the accused hasten 
away from the inn if he retained no recollection of the 
events of the night ?” 

“He may have had. a hazy recollection,” replied Sir 
Henry. “Not of the act itself, but of strange events 
happening to him in the night — something like a bad 
dream, but more vivid. He may have found something 
unusual — such as wet clothes or muddy boots — for which 
he could not account. Then he would begin to wonder, 
and then perhaps there would come a hazy recollection 
of some trivial detail. Then, as he came to himself, he 
would begin to grow alarmed, and his impulse, as his 
normal mind returned to him, would be to leave the place 
where he was as soon as he could. This restlessness is a 
characteristic of epilepsy. In my opinion, it was this 
vague alarm, on finding himself in a position for which 
he could not account, which was the cause of the accused 
leaving the Durrington hotel. His last recollection, as 
he told me at the time, was entering the breakfast-room ; 
he came to his senses in his bedroom, with strangers in 
the room.” 

“Does not recollection return completely in attacks of 
petit mal ?” 

“Sometimes it does; sometimes not. I remember a 


190 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


case in my student days where an epileptic violently as- 
saulted a man in the street — almost murdered him in 
fact-then assaulted a man who tried to detain him, ran 
away, and remembered nothing about it afterwards.” 

“Is it consistent with petit mal, combined with furor 
epilepticus , for a man to commit murder, conceal the 
body of his victim, and remember nothing about it after- 
wards ?” 

“Quite consistent, though the probability is, as I said 
before, for him to have some hazy recollection when he 
came to his senses, which would lead to his leaving that 
place as quickly as he could.” 

“Would it be consistent with petit mal for a man to 
take a weapon away beforehand, and then, during a 
sudden fit of petit mal, use it upon the unfortunate vic- 
tim ?” 

“If he took the weapon for another purpose, it is 
quite possible that he might use it afterwards/’ 

“I should like to have that a little clearer/’ said the 
judge, interposing. “Do you mean to get the weapon for 
another, possibly quite innocent purpose, and then use it 
for an act of violence?” 

“Yes, my lord,” replied Sir Henry. “That is quite 
consistent with an attack of petit mal.” 

“When a man has periodical attacks of petit mal, 
would it not be possible, by observation of him between 
the attacks, or when he was suffering from the attacks, 
to tell whether he had a tendency to them ?” 

“No, only in a very few and exceptional cases.” 

“In your opinion epilepsy is an hereditary disease?” 

“Undoubtedly.” 

“Are you aware that certain eminent French special- 
ists, including Marie, are of the opinion that hereditary 
influences play a very small part in epilepsy?” 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


191 

“That may be.” Sir Henry dismissed the views of 
the French physicians with a condescending wave of his 
fat white hand. 

“That does not alter your own opinion?” 

“Certainly not.” 

“And do you say that because this man’s mother suf- 
fered from epilepsy the chances are that he is suffering 
from it?” 

“Pardon me, I said nothing of the kind. I think the 
chances are that he would have a highly organised nerv- 
ous system, and would probably suffer from some 
nervous disease. In the case of the prisoner, I should 
say that shell-shock increased his predisposition to epi- 
lepsy.” 

“Do you suggest that shell-shock leads to epilepsy ?” 

“In general, no; in this particular case, possibly. A 
man may have shell-shock, and injury to the brain, which 
is not necessarily epileptic.” 

“It is possible for shell-shock alone to lead to a subse- 
quent attack of insanity?” asked the judge. 

“It is possible — certainly.” 

“How often do these attacks of petit mal occur?” 
asked Sir Herbert. 

“They vary considerably according to the patient — 
sometimes once a week, sometimes monthly, and there 
have been cases in which the attacks are separated by 
months.” 

“Are not two attacks in twenty-four hours unprece- 
dented ?” 

“Unusual, but not unprecedented. The excitement of 
going from one place to another, and walking miles to 
get there, would be a predisposing factor. Prisoner 
would have been suffering from the effects of the first 
attack when he left the Durrington hotel, and the excite- 


192 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


ment of the change and the fatigue of walking all day 
would have been very prejudicial to him, and account for 
the second and more violent attack.” 

“How long do the after effects last — of an attack of 
petit mal, I mean.” 

“It depends on the violence of the attack. Some- 
times as long as five or six hours. The recovery is gener- 
ally attended with general lassitude.” 

“There is no evidence to show that the prisoner dis- 
played any symptoms of epilepsy before the attack which 
you witnessed at the Durrington hotel. Is it not unusual 
for a person to reach the age of twenty-eight or there- 
abouts without showing any previous signs of a disease 
like epilepsy?” 

“There must be a first attack — that goes without say- 
ing,” interposed the judge testily. 

That concluded the cross-examination. Mr. Middle- 
heath, in re-examination, asked Sir Henry whether foam 
at the lips was a distinguishing mark of epilepsy. 

“It generally indicates an epileptic tendency,” replied 
Sir Henry Durwood. 

At the conclusion of Sir Henry Durwood’s evidence 
Mr. Middleheath called an official from the War Office 
to prove formally that Lieutenant James Penreath had 
been discharged from His Majesty’s forces suffering 
from shell-shock. 

“I understand that, prior to the illness which termi- 
nated his military career, Lieutenant Penreath had won 
a reputation as an exceedingly gallant soldier, and had 
been awarded the D.S.O,” said Mr. Middleheath. 

“That is so,” replied the witness. 

“Is that the case?” asked the judge. 

“That, my lord, is the case,” replied Mr. Middleheath. 

Sir Herbert Templewood, on behalf of the Crown, pro- 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


193 


ceeded to call rebutting medical evidence to support the 
Crown contention that the accused was sane and aware 
of the nature of his acts. The first witness was Dr. 
Henry Manton, of Heathfield, who said he saw the ac- 
cused when he was brought into the station from Flegne 
by Police Constable Queensmead. He seemed perfectly 
rational, though disinclined to talk. 

“Did you find any symptom upon him which pointed to 
his having recently suffered from epilepsy of any kind?” 
asked Sir Herbert. 

“No.” 

“Do you agree with Sir Henry Durwood that between 
attacks of epilepsy the patient would exhibit no signs of 
the disease?” asked Mr. Middleheath. 

“What do you mean by between the attacks?” 

“I mean when he had completely recovered from one 
fit and before the next came on,” explained counsel. 

“I quite agree with that,” replied the witness. 

“How long does it usually take for a man to recover 
from an attack of epilepsy?” 

“It depends on the severity of the attack.” 

“Well, take an attack serious enough to cause a man 
to commit murder.” 

“It may take hours — five or six hours. He would 
certainly be drowsy and heavy for three or four hours 
afterwards.” 

“But not longer — he would not show symptoms for 
thirty-six hours ?” 

“Certainly not.” 

“Then, may I take it from you, doctor, that after the 
five or six hours recovery after a bad attack an epileptic 
might show no signs of the disease — not even to medical 
eyes — till the next attack?” 


194 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


“I should say so/’ replied the witness. “But I am not 
an authority on mental diseases.” 

“Thank you.” 

The next witness was Dr. Gilbert Horbury, who de- 
scribed himself as medical officer of His Majesty’s 
prison, Norwich, and formerly medical officer of the 
London detention prison. In reply to Sir Herbert Tem- 
plewood, he said he had had much experience in cases 
of insanity and alleged insanity. He had had the ac- 
cused in the present case under observation since the 
time he had been brought to the gaol. He was very taci- 
turn, but he was quiet and gentlemanly in his behaviour. 
His temperature and pulse were normal, but he slept 
badly, and twice he complained of pains in the head. 
Witness attributed the pains in the head to the effect of 
shell-shock. He had seen no signs which suggested, to 
his mind, that prisoner was an epileptic. In reply to a 
direct question by Sir Herbert Templewood, he expressed 
his deliberate professional opinion that accused was 
not suffering from epilepsy in any form. Epilepsy 
did not start off with a bad attack ending in violence — 
or murder. There were premonitory symptoms and 
slight attacks extending over a considerable period, which 
must have manifested themselves, particularly in the case 
of a man who had been through an arduous military 
campaign. His illness might have had a bad effect on 
the brain, but if it had led to mental disease he would 
have expected it to show itself before. 

From this point of view the witness, a dour, grey figure 
of a man, refused to be driven by cross-examination. 
His many professional years within the sordid atmos- 
phere of gaol walls had taught him that most criminals 
were malingerers by instinct, and that pretended insanity 
was the commonest form of their imposition to evade the 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


*95 

consequence of their misdeeds. The number of false 
cases which had passed through his hands had led him 
to the very human conclusion that all such defences were 
merely efforts to defraud the law, and, as a zealous 
officer of the law, he took a righteous satisfaction in 
discomfiting them, particularly when — as in the present 
instance^-the defence was used to shield an accused 
of some social standing. For Dr. Horbury’s political 
tendencies were levelling and iconoclastic, and he had a 
deep contempt for caste, titles, and monarchs. 

He was too sophisticated as a witness to walk into 
Mr. Middleheath’s trap and contradict Sir Henry’s evi- 
dence directly, but he contrived to convey the impression 
that his own observation of accused, covering a period 
of nine days, was a better guide for the jury in arriving 
at a conclusion as to the accused’s state of mind than 
Sir Henry’s opinion, formed after a single and limited 
opportunity of diagnosing the case. He also managed 
to infer, in a gentlemanly professional way, that Sir 
Henry Durwood was deservedly eminent in the medical 
world as a nerve specialist, rather than as a mental spe- 
cialist, whereas witness’s own experience in mental cases 
had been very wide. He talked learnedly of the diffi- 
culty of diagnosing epilepsy except after prolonged ob- 
servation, and cited lengthily from big books, which a 
court constable brought into court one by one, on symp- 
toms, reflex causes, auras, grand mal, petit mal, Jackso- 
nian epilepsy, and the like. 

The only admission of any value that Mr. Middleheath 
could extract from Dr. Horbury was a statement that 
while he had seen no symptoms in the prisoner to suggest 
that he was an epileptic, epileptics did not, as a rule, 
show symptoms of the disease between the attack. 

“Therefore, assuming the fact that Penreath is subject 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


196 

to epilepsy, you would not necessarily expect to find any 
symptoms of the disease during the time he was awaiting 
trial ?” asked Mr. Middleheath, eagerly following up the 
opening. 

“Possibly nothing that one could swear to,” rejoined 
the witness, in an exceedingly dry tone. 

Mr. Middleheath essayed no more questions, but got 
the witness out of the box as quickly as possible, trusting 
to his own address to remove the effect of the evidence 
on the mind of the jury. At the outset of that address 
he pointed out that the case for the Crown rested upon 
purely circumstantial evidence, and that nobody had seen 
prisoner commit the murder with which he was charged. 
The main portion of his remarks was directed to con- 
vincing the jury that the prisoner was the unhappy vic- 
tim of epileptic attacks, in which he was not responsible 
for his actions. He scouted the theory of motive, as put 
forward by the Crown. It was not fair to suggest that 
the Treasury note which the accused paid to the servant 
at the inn was necessarily part of the dead man’s money 
which had disappeared on the night of the murder and 
had not since been recovered. The fact that accused had 
been turned out of the Grand Hotel, for not paying his 
hotel bill, was put forward by the Crown to show that 
he was in a penniless condition, but that assumption went 
too far. It might well be that a man in accused’s social 
standing would have a pound or two in his pocket, al- 
though he might not be able to meet an hotel bill of £30. 

“Can you conceive this young man, this gallant soldier, 
this heir to an old and honourable name, with everything 
in life to look forward to, committing an atrocious mur- 
der for £300?” continued Mr. Middleheath. “The tra- 
ditions of his name and race, his upbringing, his recent 
gallant career as a soldier, alike forbid the sordid possi- 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


197 


bility. Moreover, he had no need to commit a crime to 
obtain money. His father, his friends, or the woman 
who was to be his wife, would have instantly supplied 
him with the money he needed, if they had known he was 
in want. To a young man in his station of life £300 is 
a comparatively small sum. Is it likely that he would 
have committed murder to obtain it ?” 

“On the other hand, the prisoner’s actions, since re- 
turning to England, strongly suggest that his mind has 
been giving way for some time past. He was invalided 
from the Army suffering from shell-shock, with the result 
that his constitution became weakened, and the fatal taint 
of inherited epilepsy, which was in his blood, began to 
manifest itself. His family doctor and his fiancee have 
told you that his behaviour was strange before he left 
for Norfolk; since coming to Norfolk it has been unmis- 
takably that of a man who is no longer sane. Was it 
the conduct of a sane man to conceal his whereabouts 
from his friends, and stay at an hotel without money till 
he was turned out, when he might have had plenty of 
money, or at all events saved himself the humiliation of 
being turned out of the hotel, at the cost of a telegram? 
And why did he subsequently go miles across country to 
a remote and wretched inn, where he had never been be- 
fore, and beg for a bed for the night? Were these the 
acts of a sane man?” 

In his peroration Mr. Middleheath laid particular em- 
phasis on the evidence of Sir Henry Durwood, whose 
name was known throughout England as one of the most 
eminent specialists of his day. Sir Henry Durwood, Mr. 
Middleheath pointed out, had seen the prisoner in a fit 
at the Durrington hotel, and he emphatically declared 
that the accused was an epileptic, with homicidal ten- 
dencies. Such an opinion, coming from such a quarter, 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


198 

was, to Mr. Middleheath’s mind, incontrovertible proof 
of the prisoner’s insanity, and he did not see how the 
jury could go behind it in coming to a decision. 

Sir Herbert Templewood’s address consisted of a dry 
marshalling of the facts for and against the theory of 
insanity. Sir Herbert contended that the defence had 
failed to establish their contention that the accused man 
was not in his right mind. He impressed upon the jury 
the decided opinion of Dr. Horbury, who, as doctor of 
the metropolitan receiving gaol, had probably a wider 
experience of epilepsy and insanity than any specialist in 
the world. Dr. Horbury, after nine days close observa- 
tion of the accused, had come to the conclusion that he 
was perfectly sane and responsible for his actions. 

The general opinion among the bunch of legal wigs 
which gathered together at the barristers’ table as Sir 
Herbert Templewood resumed his seat was that the issue 
had been very closely fought on both sides, and that the 
verdict would depend largely upon the way the judge 
summed up. 

His lordship commenced his summing up by informing 
the jury that in the first place they must be satisfied that 
the prisoner was the person who killed Mr. Glenthorpe. 
He did not think they would have much difficulty on that 
head, because, although the evidence was purely circum- 
stantial, it pointed strongly to the accused, and the de- 
fence had not seriously contested the charge. There- 
fore, if they were satisfied that the accused did, in fact, 
cause the death of Mr. Glenthorpe, the only question that 
remained for them to decide was the state of the prison- 
er’s mind at the time. If they were satisfied that he was 
not insane at the time, they must find him guilty of mur- 
der. If, however, they came to the conclusion that he 
was insane at the time he committed the act, they would 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


199 

return a verdict that he was guilty of the act charged 
against him, but that he was insane at the time. 

His lordship painstakingly defined the difference be- 
tween sanity and insanity in the eyes of the law, but 
though his precise and legal definition called forth ap- 
preciative glances from the lawyers below him, it is 
doubtful whether the jury were much wiser for the ex- 
planation. After reviewing the evidence for the prose- 
cution at considerable length, his lordship then proceeded, 
with judicial impartiality, to state the case for the de- 
fence. The case for the prisoner, he said, was that he 
had been strange or eccentric ever since he returned from 
the front suffering from shell-shock, that his eccentricity 
deepened into homicidal insanity, and that he committed 
the act of which he stood charged while suffering under 
an attack of epilepsy, which produced a state of mind 
that led the sufferer to commit an act of violence without 
understanding what he was doing. In view of the nature 
of this defence the jury were bound to look into the 
prisoner’s family and hereditary history, and into his own 
acts before the murder, before coming to a conclusion as 
to his state of mind. 

The defence, he thought, had proved sufficient to en- 
able the jury to draw the conclusion that Lady Penreath, 
the mother of the prisoner, was an epileptic. The asser- 
tion that the prisoner was an epileptic rested upon the 
evidence of Sir Henry Durwood, for the evidence of 
Miss Willoughby and the family doctor went no further 
than to suggest a slight strangeness or departure from 
the prisoner’s usual demeanour. Sir Henry Durwood, 
by reason of his professional standing, was entitled to be 
received with respect, but he had himself admitted that 
he had had no previous opportunity of diagnosing the 
case of accused, and that it was difficult to form an exact 


200 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


opinion in a disease like epilepsy. Dr. Horbury, on the 
other hand, had declared that the prisoner showed noth- 
ing symptomatic of epilepsy while awaiting remand. In 
Dr. Horbury’s opinion, he was not an epileptic. There- 
fore the case resolved itself into a direct conflict of med- 
ical testimony, and it was for the jury to decide, and 
form a conclusion as to the man’s state of mind in con- 
junction with the other evidence. 

“The contention for the defence,” continued his lord- 
ship, leaning forward and punctuating his words with 
sharp taps of his fountain pen on the desk in front of 
him, “is this: 'Look at this case fairly and clearly, 
and you are bound to come to the conclusion that this 
man is not in a sound frame of mind.’ The prosecution, 
on the other hand, say, 'The facts of this case do not 
point to insanity at all, but to deliberate murder for gain.’ 
The defence urge further, 'You have got to look at the 
probabilities. No man in prisoner’s position, a gentle- 
man by birth and upbringing, the heir of an old and 
proud name, with a hitherto unblemished reputation, and 
the prospects of a long and not inconspicuous career in 
front of him, would in his senses have murdered this old 
man.’ That is a matter for you to consider, because we 
do know that brutal crimes are committed by the most 
unlikely persons. But the prosecution also allege mo- 
tive, and you must consider the question of motive. It 
is suggested, and it is for you to consider whether rightly 
or wrongly suggested, that there was a motive in killing 
this man, because the prisoner was absolutely penniless 
and wanted to get money. 

“Gentlemen, you will first apply your minds to con- 
sidering all the evidence, and you will next consider 
whether you are satisfied that the prisoner knew the dif- 
ference between right and wrong so far as the act with 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


201 


which he is charged is concerned. You must decide 
whether he knew the nature and quality of the act, and 
whether he knew the difference between that act being 
right, and that act being wrong. I have already pointed 
out to you that the law presumes him to be of sane mind, 
and able to distinguish between right and wrong, and 
it is for him to satisfy you, if he is to escape responsibility 
for this act, that he could not tell whether it was right 
or wrong. If you are satisfied of that, you ought to say 
that he is guilty of the act alleged, but insane at the time 
it was committed. If you are not satisfied on that point, 
then it is your duty to find him guilty of murder. Gen- 
tlemen, you will kindly retire and consider your verdi ct.” 

The jury retired, and there ensued a period of tension, 
which the lawyers employed in discussing the technicali- 
ties of the case and the probabilities of an acquittal. Mr. 
Oakham thought an acquittal was a certainty, but Mr. 
Middleheath, with a deeper knowledge of the ways of 
provincial juries, declared that the defence would have 
stood a better chance of success before a London jury, 
because Londoners had more imagination than other 
Englishmen. 

“You never can tell how a d d muddle-headed 

country jury will decide a highly technical case like this,” 
said the K.C. peevishly. “Ive lost stronger cases than 
this before a Norfolk jury. Norfolk men are clannish, 
and Horbury’s evidence carried weight. He is a Nor- 
folk man, though he has been in London. One never 
knows, of course. If the jury remain out over an hour 
I think we will pull it off.” 

But the jury returned into court after an absence of 
forty minutes. The judge, who was waiting in his pri- 
vate room, was informed, and he entered the court and 


202 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


resumed his seat. The jury answered to their names, 
and then the Clerk of Arraigns, in a singsong voice, said : 

“Gentlemen, have you agreed upon your verdict? Do 
you find the prisoner guilty or not guilty of wilful 
murder?” 

“Guilty !” answered the foreman, in a loud, clear voice. 

“You say that he is guilty of murder, and that is the 
verdict of you all?” 

“That is the verdict of us all,” was the response. 

“James Ronald Penreath,” continued the clerk, turn- 
ing to the accused man, and speaking in the same sing- 
song tones of one who repeated a formula by rote, “you 
stand convicted of the crime of wilful murder. Have 
you anything to say for yourself why the Court should 
not give you judgment of death according to law?” 

The man in the dock, who had turned very pale, 
merely shook his head. 

The judge, with expressionless face and in an expres- 
sionless voice, pronounced sentence of death. 


CHAPTER XVII 


Colwyn returned to Durrington in a perplexed and 
dissatisfied frame of mind. The trial, which he had at- 
tended and followed closely, had failed to convince him 
that all the facts concerning the death of Roger Glen- 
thorpe had been brought to light. Really, the trial had 
not been a trial at all, but merely a battle of lawyers 
about the state of Penreath’s mind. 

If Penreath was really sane — and Colwyn, who had 
watched him closely during the trial, believed that he 
was — the Crown theory of the murder by no means ac- 
counted for all the amazing facts of the case. 

Should he have done more? Colwyn asked himself 
this question again and again. But that query always 
led to another one — Could he have done more? In his 
mental probings the detective could rarely get away from 
the point — and when he did get away from it he always 
returned to it — that Penreath, by his dogged silence, had 
been largely responsible for his own conviction. If a 
man, charged with murder, refused to account for ac- 
tions which pointed to him as the murderer, how could 
anybody help him? Silence, in certain circumstances, 
was the strongest presumptive proof of guilt. A man 
was the best judge of his own actions and, if he refused 
to speak when his own life might pay the forfeit for 
silence, he must have the strongest possible reason for 
holding his tongue. What other reason could Penreath 
have except the consciousness of guilt, and the hope of 
203 


204 THE SHRIEKING PIT 

escaping the consequences through a loop-hole of the 
law? 

Colwyn, however, was unable to accept this line of 
argument as conclusive, so he tried to put the case out 
of his mind. But the unsolved points of the mystery — 
the points that he himself had discovered during his visit 
to the inn — kept returning to his mind at all sorts of odd 
times, in the night, and during his walks. And each 
recurrence was accompanied by the consciousness that he 
had not done his best in the case, but had allowed the 
silence of the accused man to influence his judgment and 
slacken his efforts to unravel the clues he had originally 
discovered. Thus he travelled back to his starting-point, 
that the conviction of Penreath had not solved the mys- 
tery of the murder of Roger Glenthorpe. 

The hotel and its guests bored him. The season was 
over, and the few people who remained were elderly and 
commonplace, prone to overeating, and to falling asleep 
round the lounge fire after dinner. The only topics of 
conversation were the weather, the war, and food. 
Sometimes the elderly clergyman, who still lingered, 
though the other golfers had gone, sought to turn the 
conversation to golf, but nobody listened to him except 
his wife, who sat opposite to him in the warmest part 
of the lounge placidly knitting socks for the War Com- 
forts Fund. The Flegne murder and its result were not 
discussed ; by tacit mutual understanding the guests 
never referred to the unpleasant fact that they had lived 
for some weeks under the same roof with a man who had 
since been declared a murderer by the laws of his country. 

Colwyn decided to return to London, although the 
month he had allowed himself for a holiday was not com- 
pleted. He was restless and uneasy and bored, and he 
thought that immersion in work would help him to for- 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


205 


get the Glenthorpe case. He came to this decision at 
breakfast one morning. Within an hour he had paid 
his bill, received the polite regrets of the proprietor at 
his departure, and was motoring leisurely southward 
along the cliff road towards its junction with the main 
London road. 

Important consequences frequently spring from trifling 
incidents. Colwyn, turning his car to the side of the 
road to avoid a flock of sheep, punctured a tyre on a 
sharp jagged piece of rock concealed in the loose sand 
at the side of the road. He had not a spare tyre on the 
car, and the shepherd informed him that the nearest 
town where he could hope to get the tyre replaced was 
Faircroft, but even that was doubtful, because Faircroft 
was a small town without a garage, and the one trades- 
man who did motor-car repairs was, just as likely as not, 
without the right kind of tyres, or equally likely to have 
none at all. As he had left Durrington barely three 
miles behind Colwyn decided to return there, to have 
the car repaired, and defer his departure till the follow- 
ing day. 

He reached Durrington with a deflated tyre, took the 
car to the garage, and then went back to the hotel. It 
wanted nearly an hour to lunch-time, and on his way in 
he paused at the office window to inform the clerk that 
he had returned, and would stay till the following day. 
The proprietor was in the office, checking some figures. 
The latter looked up as Colwyn informed the lady clerk 
of his altered plans, and informed him that a young lady 
had been at the hotel inquiring for him shortly after his 
departure. 

“What was her name?” asked the detective, in some 
surprise. 

“She didn't give her name. She seemed very disap- 


206 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


pointed when she learnt that you had departed for Lon- 
don, and went away at once.” 

“What was she like?” 

The proprietor and the lady clerk described her at the 
same time. In the former’s eyes the visitor had ap- 
peared pretty and young with golden hair and a very 
clear complexion. The lady clerk, without the least de- 
parture from the standard of courtesy imposed upon her 
by her position, managed to indicate that the impression 
made upon her feminine mind was that of a white-faced 
girl with red hair. From both descriptions Colwyn had 
no difficulty in identifying the visitor as Peggy. 

Why had she come to Durrington to see him? Obvi- 
ously the visit was connected with the murder at the inn. 
Colwyn recalled his last conversation with her on the 
marshes the day after he had seen her come out of the 
dead man’s room. 

He hurried out in the hope of finding her. She had 
probably come by train from Leyland, and would go back 
the same way. Colwyn looked at his watch. It was a 
quarter past twelve, and there was no train back to 
Leyland till half -past one — so much Colwyn remembered 
from his study of the local time-table. Therefore, un- 
less she had walked back to Flegne she should not be 
difficult to find — probably she was somewhere on the 
cliffs, or near the sea. Somehow, Peggy seemed to be- 
long to the sea and Nature. It was difficult to picture 
her in a conventional setting. 

It was by the sea that he found her, sitting in one of 
the shelters on the parade, with her hands clasped in her 
lap, looking listlessly at a fisher-boat putting out from 
the yellow sands below. She glanced round at the sound 
of his footsteps, and, seeing who it was, came out from 
the shelter and advanced to meet him. 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


207 


“They told me at the hotel somebody had been asking 
for me, and I guessed it was you. You wanted to see 
me ?” 

“Yes.” She did not express any surprise at his re- 
turn, as another girl would, but stood with her hands 
still clasped in front of her, and a look of entreaty in 
her eyes. Colwyn noticed that her face had grown 
thinner, and that in the depths of her glance there lurked 
a troubled shadow. 

“Shall we walk a little and you can tell me what you 
wish to say?” 

“It is very kind of you.” 

He turned away from the front and towards the cliffs, 
judging that the girl would feel more disposed to talk 
freely away from human habitation and people. They 
went on for some distance in silence, the girl walking 
with a light quick step, looking straight in front of her, 
as though immersed in thought. 

They reached a part of the cliffs where a low wall 
divided the foreland from an old churchyard which was 
fast crumbling into the sea. Peggy paused with her 
hand on the wall, and looked seaward. The sun, pierc- 
ing a rift in the dark clouds, lighted the sullen grey 
waters with patches of gold. Colwyn, in the hope of 
inducing his companion to talk, pointed out the beautiful 
effect of the light and shadow on the sea. 

“I hate the sea! I have never looked at it since the 
war started without seeing the many, many dead sailor 
boys at the bottom, staring up with their dead eyes 
through the weight of waters for a God of Justice in the 
heavens, and looking in vain.” She turned her eyes 
from the sea, and looked at him passionately. “You do 
not care about the sea, either. You are only trying to 
put me at my ease — to help me say what I want to say. 


208 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


It is kind of you, but it is not necessary. I feel I can 
trust you — I must trust you. I am only a girl and there 
is nobody else in the world I dare trust. It is about — 
him. Have you seen him? Have you spoken to him? 
Did he speak about me?” 

“I saw him only at the trial,” replied Colwyn, with his 
ready comprehension. “I had no opportunity of speak- 
ing to him alone.” 

“I read about the trial in the paper,” she went on. 
“They said that he was mad in order to try and save him, 
but he is not mad — he was too good and kind to be mad. 
Oh, why -did he kill Mr. Glenthorpe ? Will they kill him 
for that? You are clever, can you not save him? I 
have come to beg you to save him. Ever since they took 
him away I have seen his eyes wherever I go, looking 
at me reproachfully, as though calling upon me to save 
him. Last night, while I was in my grandmother’s room, 
I thought I saw him standing there, and heard his voice, 
just as he used to speak. And in the night I woke up 
and thought I heard him whisper, ‘Peggy, it is better to 
tell the truth.’ This morning I could endure it no longer, 
and I came across to find you.” 

“You have known him before, then?” 

“Yes.” The girl met Colwyn’s grave glance with 
clear, unafraid eyes. “I did not tell you before, not be- 
cause I was afraid to trust you, for I liked you from the 
first, but I was afraid that if I told you all you would 
think him guilty, and not try to help him. And when 
you spoke to me on the marshes that day you believed 
he might be innocent.” 

“How do you know that?” 

“I heard you say so to that police officer — Superinten- 
dent Galloway — after dinner the first night you were at 
Flegne. I was passing the bar parlour when you and 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


209 


he were talking about the murder, and I heard you say 
that you thought somebody else might have done it. The 
day after, when you saw me on the marshes, I was 
frightened to tell you the truth, because I thought if you 
knew it you might go away and not try to save him.” 

“You had better tell the whole truth to me now. 
Nothing you can now say will make it worse for Pen- 
reath, and it may be possible to help him. When did you 
first meet him ?” 

“Nearly three weeks before — it happened. I used to 
go out for long walks, when I could get away from 
grandmother, and this day I walked nearly as far as 
Leyland. He came walking along the sands a little while 
afterwards, and he looked at me as he passed. Presently 
he came back again, and stopped to ask me if there was 
a shorter way back to Durrington than by the coast road. 
I told him I didn’t know, and he stopped to talk to me 
for a while. He told me he was in Norfolk for a holi- 
day, and was spending the time in country rambles. 

“I will tell you the whole truth. I returned to the 
headland next day in the hope that I might see him 
again. After I had been there a little while I saw him 
walking along the sands. He waved his hand when he 
saw me, as though we had been old friends, and that 
afternoon we stayed talking much longer. 

“I saw him nearly every afternoon after that — when- 
ever I could get away I walked down to the headland, 
and he was always there. The spot where we used to 
meet was hidden from the road by some fir-trees, and I 
do not think we were ever seen by anybody. He told 
me all about himself, but I did not tell him anything 
about myself or my home. I knew he was a gentleman, 
and I thought if I told him that my father kept an inn 
he might not want to see me any more, and I could not 


210 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


bear that. I told him my Christian name, and he liked 
it, and used to call me by it, but I would not tell him 
my other name. 

“The night that he came to the inn I met him in the 
afternoon at the headland as usual, and we stayed talking 
until it was time for me to go home. He was very 
troubled that day, and it grieved me to see him looking 
so white and ill. When I questioned him he told me 
that he had been slightly ill that morning, and that he 
was very much worried about money matters. I felt 
very unhappy to think that he was troubled about money, 
and when he saw that he said he was sorry he had 
told me. 

“When I left him it was later than usual. I was sup- 
posed to look after my grandmother every afternoon, and 
when I went to the headland I usually got Ann to sit in 
her room until I returned. I was always careful to get 
back before my father came in from fishing on the 
marshes. He would have been very angry if he had re- 
turned and found me absent, and I should not have been 
able to get out again. It was nearly four that afternoon 
when I left the headland, and I walked very quick so as 
to be back in time. It was getting on towards dusk when 
I reached home. 

“I went straight up to my grandmother's room, so that 
Ann could go down and get dinner for Mr. Glenthorpe, 
who usually came in about dark. I sat with grand- 
mother till past six o'clock, and then, as Ann hadn’t 
brought grandmother's tea, I went down to the kitchen 
to get it myself. Ann was very busy getting dinner, and 
she told me a young gentleman had arrived at the inn 
half an hour before, and he was going to dine upstairs 
with Mr. Glenthorpe, and stay for the night. I was sur- 
prised, for we rarely had visitors at the inn. I asked 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


21 1 


Ann some questions about him, but she could tell me 
very little. Charles, the waiter, came into the kitchen to 
get the things ready to take upstairs, and he told me that 
the visitor was young, good-looking, and seemed a gen- 
tleman. 

“I got grandmother’s tea ready, and was carrying it 
along the passage from the kitchen when I fancied I 
heard Mr. Penreath’s voice in the bar parlour. I thought 
at first that I must be mistaken; then the door of the 
parlour opened, and Mr. Glenthorpe and Mr. Penreath 
came out. I was so surprised and frightened that I al- 
most dropped the tray I was carrying. If they had looked 
down the side passage they would have seen me. But 
he and Mr. Glenthorpe turned the other way, and went 
upstairs. Then Charles came along carrying a dinner 
tray, and went upstairs also. I knew then that Mr. Pen- 
reath was the gentleman who was going to dine with 
Mr. Glenthorpe, and stay the night. 

“I did not know what to do. I took grandmother’s 
tea upstairs, and crept past the room where they were 
having dinner, because I did not want him to see me 
till I had made up my mind what to do. The door was 
shut, and they couldn’t see me, though I could hear them 
talking inside. When I got to my grandmother’s room 
I tried to think what was best to do. My first thought 
was that he had found out who I was. Then it seemed 
to me that he might have come by accident, in some way 
that I didn’t understand, because why should he dine 
with Mr. Glenthorpe, and stay with him, if he had come 
to see me? Then I wondered if it were possible that 
he knew Mr. Glenthorpe, who was a gentleman like him- 
self, and had come to ask him to help him. I had never 
told him anything about Mr. Glenthorpe or myself. 


212 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


“I determined to try and see him that night to let him 
know that the inn was my home. If he had come to 
the inn by accident it was better that he should not meet 
me in front of my father, because in his surprise he 
might say that he had met me before. My father would 
have been very angry if he knew I had been meeting a 
stranger. So I went along the passage several times in 
the hope of seeing him as he came from dinner. But 
once my father was going into the room where they were 
having dinner, and he nearly saw me, so I dared not go 
again. 

“A little after ten o’clock my grandmother began to 
get restless, as she always does when a storm is coming 
on, and I had to stay with her to keep her quiet. I can 
do more with her than anybody else when she is like that, 
and it is not safe to leave her. Sometimes my father 
goes and sits with her a while before he goes to bed, but 
this night he did not. She got very bad as the storm 
came on, and while it lasted I sat alongside of her hold- 
ing her hand and soothing her. After about half an 
hour the rain ceased as suddenly as it had commenced, 
and grandmother fell asleep. I knew she was all right 
until the morning, so I left her for the night. 

“As I turned to go to my room, I thought I saw a light 
in the other passage, and I went down to see what it 
was. I thought perhaps Mr. Penreath might be waiting 
up in the hope of seeing me before I went to bed. 

“I crept along to the bend of the passage, and looked 
down it, thinking perhaps I might see him and speak to 
him. There was nobody in the passage, but the door 
of Mr. Glenthorpe’s room was half open and a light 
was streaming through it. 

“I do not know really what took me to Mr. Glen- 
thorpe’s room. I have tried to think it out clearly since, 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


213 


but I cannot. I know I was distressed and troubled 
about Mr. Penreath’s presence at the inn, and I was 
afraid he would be cross and angry with me for not hav- 
ing told him the truth about myself. And before that, 
when I was walking home after meeting him that after- 
noon, I had been unhappy about his wanting money, and 
wished that I could do something to help him. These 
thoughts kept going through my head as I sat with 
grandmother during the storm. 

“When I saw the door of Mr. Glenthorpe’s room open, 
and the light burning, all these thoughts seemed to come 
back into my head together. I remembered how good 
and kind Mr. Glenthorpe had always been to me. I 
had heard my father tell Charles that morning that Mr. 
Glenthorpe had gone to the bank at Heathfield that day 
to draw out a large sum of money to buy Mr. Cranley’s 
field. 

“I think I had a confused idea that I would go and 
confide in Mr. Glenthorpe, and ask him to help Mr. Pen- 
reath. Perhaps I have not made myself very clear about 
this, but I do not remember very clearly myself, for I 
acted on a sudden impulse, and ran along the passage 
quickly, in case he should shut his door before I got 
there, because I knew if he did that I should not have 
the courage to knock. Through the half -open door I 
could see the inside of the room between the door and 
the window. It seemed to me to be empty. I gave a 
little tap at the door, but there was no reply. It was 
then I noticed that the bedroom window was wide open, 
and that a current of air was blowing into the room and 
causing the light behind the door to cast flickering 
shadows across the room. 

“That struck me as strange. I knew Mr. Glenthorpe 
always used a reading lamp, and never a candle, and I 


214 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


knew that the reading lamp wouldn’t cast shadows be- 
cause of the lamp glass. I do not know what I feared, 
but I know a dreadful shiver of fear crept over me, and 
that some force stronger than myself seemed to compel 
me to step inside the room in spite of my fears. 


CHAPTER XVIII 


“He was lying on the bed, quite dead. There was 
blood on his breast, and his hands were held out, as 
though he had tried to push off the man who had killed 
him. On the table, by the head of the bed, was a lighted 
candle, and it was the light of the candle which had cast 
the flickering shadows I had seen before entering the 
room. On the bed, near the pillow, was a match-box, 
and I remember picking it up and placing it in the candle- 
stick — mechanically, for I am sure I did not know what 
I was doing, and I did not recall the act till afterwards. 
I have a clearer recollection of touching something with 
my foot, and stooping to pick it up. It was a knife — a 
white handled knife, with blood on the blade. And as I 
stood there, with it in my hand, there came to my mind, 
clear and distinct, the memory of having seen that knife 
on the dinner tray Charles had carried past me upstairs, 
as I stood in the passage near the kitchen, where I first 
discovered that Mr. Penreath was in the house. 

“I do not know how long I stood there, with the knife 
in my hand, looking at the body — perhaps it was not 
more than a moment. There seemed to be two individual- 
ities in me, one urging me to fly, the other keeping me 
rooted to the spot, petrified. 

“Then I heard a sound downstairs. A wild panic 
came over me, and my head grew dizzy. The shadows 
in the comers of the room seemed full of mocking eyes, 
and I thought I heard stealthy steps creeping up the 
stairs. I dared not stay where I was, but I was too 
215 


2l6 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


afraid to go out into the passage in the dark. Then my 
eyes fell on the candle, and I picked it up and was going 
to rush from the room, when I remembered that I had 
the knife in my hand. 

“I did not know what to do with it. I wanted to shield 
him, but some feeling within me would not let me carry 
it away. I looked round the room for somewhere to 
hide it, and my eye fell on a picture against the wall, 
close to the door. Quick as thought I put the knife be- 
hind the picture as I ran from the room. 

“There was nobody in the passage, and I gained my 
own room and locked the door. I think I must have 
fainted, or become unconscious, for I remember nothing 
more after throwing myself on my bed, and when I came 
to my senses the dawn was creeping in through my bed- 
room window. I was very cold, and dazed. I crept 
into bed without taking off my clothes, and fell asleep. 
When I awoke it was broad daylight, and as I lay in bed 
I heard the kitchen clock chime seven. 

“I got up, and went into grandmother’s room. A little 
while afterwards Ann came up with some tea, and she 
told me that Mr. Penreath had gone away early, without 
having any breakfast. She told me that she had found 
Mr. Glenthorpe’s room empty, with the key in the out- 
side of the door. She was afraid something had hap- 
pened to him, so she had sent for Constable Queensmead. 
I did not tell her what I had seen in the night. I wanted 
to be alone, to think. I could not understand how Mr. 
Glenthorpe’s body had disappeared from his room. I 
think I hoped that I would presently wake up and find 
that what I had seen during the night was some terrible 
dream. But Ann came up a little later and told me that 
Mr. Glenthorpe’s body had been discovered in the pit on 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 217 

the rise, and that Mr. Ronald, as she called Mr. Penreath, 
was suspected of having murdered him. 

“When she told me that I felt as though my blood 
turned to ice. I knew it was true — I knew that he had 
killed Mr. Glenthorpe because he wanted money — but 
I knew that in spite of all I wanted to shield and help 
him. I kept in my grandmother’s room all day, deter- 
mined to keep silence, and tell nobody about what I had 
seen during the night. The one thing that worried me 
was the knife which I had put behind the picture on the 
wall. I tried once to go into the room and get it, but 
the door was locked, and I dared not ask for the key. 

“Then in the afternoon the police came from Durring- 
ton. I did not know who you were when you came with 
them into my grandmother’s room, but as soon as I saw 
you I was afraid, though I tried hard not to let you see 
it. I knew you were cleverer than the others. But your 
eyes seemed to go right into mine, and search my soul. 
I asked my father afterwards who you were, and he said 
your name was Mr. Colwyn, and that you were a London 
detective. I had read about you ; I knew that you were 
famous and clever, and after seeing you I felt that you 
would be sure to discover my secret, and put Mr. Pen- 
reath in prison. 

“That night when I was downstairs, I heard you and 
the police officer talking in the room where you had 
dined, and I listened at the door. When I heard you 
say that you were not certain who committed the murder, 
I was very much surprised, because up till then I felt 
quite certain that you would think Mr. Penreath was 
guilty. I believed if you found the knife you would 
alter your opinion, Ann having told me that the police 
knew that Mr. Glenthorpe had been murdered with a 
knife which Mr. Penreath had used at dinner. The idea 


2l8 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


came into my head that if I could get the knife before 
you found it, you might go on thinking that somebody 
else had committed the crime, and perhaps persuade the 
police to think so as well. 

“I made up my mind I would go into the room that 
night and get the knife. I knew that the door was 
locked, and that the police officer had placed the key on 
the mantelpiece in the bar parlour. During the evening I 
kept downstairs at the back of the passage waiting for 
an opportunity to get it. You both stayed there so long 
that I did not think I should get the chance. 

“After you went upstairs to bed Mr. Galloway called 
Charles to get him some brandy. Charles came out from 
his room to get it. Mr. Galloway followed him into the 
bar. While he was there I slipped into the room and 
got the key, and left the key of my own room in its 
place. I did not think the police officer would notice 
the difference, but it was a risk I had to take. Then I 
ran up to my room. 

“Although I had got the key I was for some time 
afraid to use it. I could not bear the thought of going 
into that room, and to get there I had to go past your 
door ; I did not like that. 

“Then I crept out along the passage as quietly as I 
could, carrying my shoes, for I had made up my mind 
that after I got the knife I would take it across the 
marshes to the breakwater and throw it into the sea. 
That was the one place where I felt sure you would not 
find it. I carried a candle in my hand, but I dared not 
light it until I got past your door, in case you were awake 
and saw the light. When I reached Mr. Glenthorpe’s 
room I lit the candle and unlocked the door, turning the 
key as gently as I could. But it made a noise, and, as 
I stood listening, I thought I heard a movement in your 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


219 

room. I blew out the candle, stepped inside the room, 
took the key out, and locked the door on the inside. 

“I do not know how long I stood there listening in the 
dark, but I know that I was not as frightened as I had 
expected to be — at first. I kept telling myself that Mr. 
Glenthorpe had always been kind to me while he was 
alive, and that he would not harm me now that he was 
dead. I did not look towards the bed, but kept close to 
the door, straining my ears to catch any sound in the 
passage outside. But after a while I began to get fright- 
ened in that dark room with the door locked, and dread- 
ful thoughts came into my mind. I remembered a 
story I had read about a man who was locked up all 
night in a room with a dead body, and was found mad in 
the morning, and the position of the corpse had changed. 
It seemed to me as though Mr. Glenthorpe was sitting 
up in bed looking at me, but I dared not turn round to 
see. I knew that I must get out of the room or scream. 
I lit the candle, felt for the knife behind the picture, and 
opened the door. As soon as the candle was alight I felt 
braver, and I looked out of the door before going into 
the passage. I could see nothing — all seemed quiet — so 
I came out of the room and locked the door behind me 
and went downstairs. 

“Once I was outside the house and could see the 
friendly stars all my fears vanished. I know the 
marshes so well that I can find my way across them at 
any time. And in my heart I had the feeling that I had 
been brave and helped him. When I had thrown the 
knife into the sea from the breakwater I felt almost light- 
hearted, and when I reached my room again I fell asleep 
as soon as I got into bed. 

“Until you spoke to me the next day I had no idea that 
you had seen and followed me. But I knew it the mo- 


220 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


ment you stopped me and said you wanted to speak to 
me. Then I realised you had watched me, and the story 
I told you to account for my visit to the room came into 
my head. I did not know whether you believed me or not, 
but I did not care much, because I knew you could not 
have seen what I threw into the sea. That secret was 
safe as long as I kept silence ; and you couldn’t make me 
speak against my will.” 

Peggy, as she concluded, glanced up wistfully to see 
how her companion received her story, but she could 
learn nothing from the detective’s inscrutable face. Col- 
wyn, on his part, was thinking rapidly. He believed that 
the inkeeper’s daughter, yielding to the strain of a secret 
too heavy to be borne alone, had this time told him the 
truth, but, as he ran over the main points of her narra- 
tive in his mind, he could not see that it shed any addi- 
tional light on the murder. The only new fact that she 
had revealed was that she and Penreath had been ac- 
quainted before. She had also, perhaps unconsciously, 
given away the fact that she and Penreath were in love 
with each other; at all events, her story proved that she 
was so deeply in love with Penreath that she had dis- 
played unusual force of character in her efforts to shield 
him. But that knowledge did not carry them any fur- 
ther towards a solution of the mystery. It was with 
but a faint hope of eliciting anything of real value that 
he turned to her and said : 

“There is one point of your story on which I am not 
quite clear. You said that in the morning, when you 
heard of the recovery of Mr. Glenthorpe’s body from 
the pit, you knew that Mr. Penreath was the murderer. 
Why were you so sure of that? Was is because you 
picked up the knife with which the murder was com- 
mitted? The knife was a clue — the police theory of 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


221 


course is that Penreath secreted the knife at the dinner 
table for the purpose of committing the murder — but, 
by itself, it was hardly a convincing clue. Was there 
something else that made you feel sure he was guilty of 
this crime ?” 

“Yes, there was something else, ,, she repeated slowly. 

“I thought as much. And that something else was 
the match-box — is that not so?” 

“Yes, it was the match-box,” she repeated again, this 
time almost in a whisper. 

“What was there about the match-box that made you 
feel so certain?” 

“Must I tell you that?” she said, looking at him help- 
lessly. 

“Of course you must tell me.” Colwyn’s face was 
stern. “As I told you before, nothing you can do or say 
can hurt him now, and the only hope of helping him is 
by telling the whole truth.” 

“It was his match-box. It had his monogram on it.” 

“You have brought it with you ?” 

For answer she took something from the bosom of her 
dress and laid it, with a heart-broken look, in Colwyn’s 
hand. The article was a small match-box, with a regi- 
mental badge in enamel on one side, and on the other 
some initials in monogram. Colwyn examined it closely. 

“I see the initials are J.R.P.,” he said. “How did you 
know they were his initials? You knew his name?” 

“Yes. He used to light cigarettes with matches from 
that match-box when I was with him, and one day I 
asked him to show it to me. He did so, and I asked him 
what the initials were for, and he told me they stood for 
his own name— James Ronald Penreath. And then he 
told me much about himself and his family, and— and he 
said he cared for me, but he was not free.” 


222 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


She gave out the last few words in a low tone, and 
stood looking at him like a girl who had exposed the most 
sacred secret of her heart in order to help her lover. 
But Colwyn was not looking at her. He had opened the 
match-box, and was shaking out the few matches which 
remained in the interior. They fell, half a dozen of 
them, into the palm of his hand. They were wax 
matches, with blue heads. A sudden light leapt into the 
detective’s eyes as he saw them — a look so strange and 
angry that the girl, who was watching him, recoiled a 
little. 

“What is it? What have you found?” she cried. 

“It is a pity you did not tell me the truth in the first 
instance instead of deceiving me,” he retorted harshly. 
“Listen to me. Does any one at the inn know of your 
visit to me to-day ? I do not suppose they do, but I want 
to make sure.” 

“Nobody. I told them I was going to Leyland to see 
the dressmaker.” 

“So much the better.” Colwyn looked at his watch. 
“You have just time to catch the half-past one train back. 
You had better go at once. I will go to the inn some 
time this evening, but you must not let any one know 
that I am coming, or that you have seen me to-day. Do 
you understand? Can I depend on you?” 

“Yes,” she replied. “I will do anything you tell me. 
But, oh, do tell me before I go whether you are going 
to save him.” 

“I cannot say that,” he replied, in a gentler voice. 
“But I am going to try to help him. Go at once, or 
you will not catch the train.” 


CHAPTER XIX 


Colwyn formed his plans on his way back to the hotel. 
He stopped at the office as he went in to lunch, and in- 
formed the lady clerk that he had changed his mind 
about leaving, and would keep on his room, but expected 
to be away in the country for two or three days. The 
lady clerk, who had mischievous eyes and wore her hair 
fluffed, asked the detective if he had been successful in 
finding the young lady who had called to see him. On 
Colwyn gravely informing her that he had, she smiled. 
It was obvious that she scented a romance in the guest’s 
changed plans. 

As the detective wished to attract as little attention as 
possible in the renewed investigations he was about to 
make, he decided not to take his car to Flegne. After 
lunch he packed a few necessaries in a handbag, and 
caught the afternoon train to Heathfield. Arriving at 
that wayside station, he asked the elderly functionary 
who acted as station-master, porter and station clearier 
the nearest way across country to Flegne, and, receiving 
the most explicit instructions in a thick Norfolk dialect, 
set out with his handbag. 

The road journey to Flegne was five miles. By the 
footpath across the fields it was something less than 
four, and Colwyn, walking briskly, reached the rise above 
the marshes in a little less than an hour. The village on 
the edge of the marshes looked grey and cheerless and 
deserted in the dull afternoon light, and the sighing wind 
brought from the North Sea the bitter foretaste of win- 
ter. The inn was cut off from the village by a new ac- 


223 


224 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


cession of marsh water which had thrust a slimy tongue 
across the road, forming a pool in which frogs were 
vociferously astir. 

As Colwyn descended the rise the front door of the 
inn opened, and the gaunt figure of the innkeeper 
emerged, carrying some fishing lines in his hands. He 
paused beneath the inn signboard, the rusty swinging 
anchor, and looked up at the sky, which was lowering 
and black. As he did so, he turned, and saw Colwyn. 
He waited for him to approach, and left it to the visitor 
to speak first. He showed no surprise at Colwyn’s ap- 
pearance, but his bird-like face did not readily lend itself 
to the expression of human emotions. It would have 
been almost as easy for a toucan to display joy, grief, or 
surprise. 

“Good afternoon, Benson,” said the detective cheer- 
fully. “Going to be rather wet for a fishing excursion, 
isn't it ?” 

“That’s just what I can’t make up my mind, sir,” re- 
plied the other. “Clouds like these do not always mean 
rain in this part of the world. The clouds seem to 
gather over the marshes more, and sometimes they hang 
like this for days without rain. But I do not think I’ll 
go fishing to-night. The rain in these parts goes through 
you in no time, and there’s no shelter on the marshes.” 

“In that case you’ll be able to attend to me.” 

“I’d do that in any case, sir,” replied the other quickly. 

“I think of spending a few days here before returning 
to London. I am interested in archaeological research, 
and this part of the Norfolk coast is exceedingly rich in 
archaeological and prehistoric remains, as, of course, you 
are well aware.” 

“Yes, sir. Many scientific gentlemen used to visit the 
place at one time. We had one who stayed at the inn 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


225 


for a short time last year — Dr. Gardiner, perhaps you 
have heard of him. He was very interested in the hut 
circles on the rise, and when he went back to London he 
wrote a book about them. Then there was poor Mr. 
Glenthorpe. He was never tired of talking of the 
ancient things which were under the earth hereabouts/’ 

“Quite so. I should like to make a few investigations 
on my own account. That is why I have come over this 
afternoon. I have left my car and my luggage at Dur- 
rington, where I have been staying, thinking you might 
find it easier to put me up without them. I presume you 
can accommodate me, Benson?” 

“Well, sir, you know the place is rough and I haven’t 
much to offer you. But if you do not mind that ” 

“Not in the least. You need not go to any trouble on 
my account.” 

“Then, sir, I shall be pleased to do what I can to make 
you comfortable. Will you step inside? This way, sir 
— I must ask Ann about your room before I can take 
you upstairs.” 

The innkeeper opened the door of the bar parlour, and 
asked Colwyn to excuse him while he consulted the 
servant. He returned in a few minutes with Ann lum- 
bering in his wake. The stout countrywoman bobbed at 
the sight of the detective, and proceeded to explain in 
apologetic tones, with sundry catches of the breath and 
jelly-like movements of her fat frame, that she was sorry 
being caught unawares, and not expecting visitors, but 
the fact was that Mr. Colwyn couldn’t have the room 
he slept in before, because she had given it a good turn 
out that day, and everything was upside down, to say 
nothing of it being as damp as damp could be. There 
was only poor Mr. Glenthorpe’s room — of course, that 
wouldn’t do — and the room next, which the poor young 


226 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


gentleman had slept in. Would Mr. Colwyn mind hav- 
ing that room? If he didn’t mind, she could make it 
quite comfortable, and would have clean sheets aired in 
front of the kitchen fire in no time. 

Colwyn felt that he had reason to congratulate him- 
self that he had been asked to occupy the very room 
which he desired to examine closely. The lucky acci- 
dent of turning out the other room would save him a 
midnight prowl from the one room to the other, with 
the possible risk of detection. He told Ann that the 
room Mr. Penreath had slept in would do very well, 
and assured her that she was not to bother on his ac- 
count. But Ann was determined to worry, and her mind 
was no sooner relieved about the bedroom than she pro- 
pounded the problem of dinner. She had been taken 
unawares in that direction also. There was nothing in 
the house but a little cold mutton, and some hare soup 
left over from the previous day. If she warmed up a 
plateful of soup — it was lovely soup, and had set into a 
perfect jelly — and made rissoles of the mutton, and sent 
them to table with some vegetables, with a pudding to 
follow; would that do? Colwyn replied smilingly that 
would do excellently, and Ann withdrew, promising to 
serve the meal within an hour. 

Colwyn passed that time in the bar parlour. The inn- 
keeper, of his own accord, brought in some of the famous 
smuggled brandy, and willingly accepted the detective’s 
invitation to drink a glass of it. With an old-fashioned 
long-footed liqueur glass of the brown brandy in front of 
him, the innkeeper waxed more loquacious than Colwyn 
had yet found him, and related many strange tales of the 
old smuggling days of the inn, when cargoes of brandy 
were landed on the coast, and stowed away in the inn’s 
subterranean passages almost under the noses of the ex- 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


227 


cise officers. According to local history, the inn had 
been built into the hillside to afford better lurking-places 
for those who were continually at variance with His 
Majesty’s excise officers. There was one local worthy 
named Cranley, the lawless ancestor of the yeoman who 
had sold the piece of land to Mr. Glenthorpe, who was 
reported to be the most brazen smuggler in Norfolk, 
which was saying something, considering the greater por- 
tion of the coastal population were engaged in smuggling 
in those days. 

Cranley was a local hero, with a hero’s love for the 
brandy he smuggled so freely, and tradition declared of 
him that on one occasion he set light to some barns and 
hayricks in order to warn some of his smuggling com- 
panions who were ‘Tunning a cargo” that a trap had been 
laid for them. The farmers who had suffered by the 
blaze had sought to carry Cranley before the justices, but 
he, with a few choice spirits, had barricaded himself in 
the inn, defying the countryside for months, subsisting on 
bread and brandy, and shooting from the circular win- 
dows on the south side of the house at the soldiers sent 
to take him. Local tradition varied as to the ultimate 
fate of Cranley and his desperate band. 

According to some authorities, they escaped through 
the marshes and put to sea ; but another version of the 
story declared that they had been captured and tried 
in the inn, and then ingloriously hanged, one after the 
other, from the stanchion outside the door from which 
the anchor suspended. This version added the touch 
that Cranley’s last request was for a bumper of the 
famous old brandy he had lost his life for, and when 
it was given him he quaffed it to the bottom, dashed the 
cup in the hangman’s face, and swung himself off into 
eternity. Confirmatory evidence of the siege of Cranley 


228 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


and his merry men was to bo seen in the outside wall, 
which was dinted with bullet marks made by the King's 
troops as they tried to hit the smugglers, firing through 
the circular windows. 

The innkeeper rambled on in this fashion until the 
entry of Charles with a table-cloth reminded him of the 
flight of time, and he withdrew with a halting apology 
for having sat there talking so long. The fat waiter 
saluted Colwyn with a grave bow, and proceeded to lay 
the cloth. When he had done this he left the room and 
returned with a bottle of claret, which he put down in 
front of the fire, and proceeded to warm the wine, keep- 
ing his hand on the bottle as he did so. Then he lifted 
the bottle and held it to the light before setting it care- 
fully on the table. 

“Your knowledge of wine is not of much use to you 
in Flegne, Charles/’ remarked Colwyn. “You do not 
belong to these parts, I fancy.” 

“No, sir. I’m a Londoner born and bred,” replied the 
waiter, in his soft whisper. 

“Why did you leave it? Londoners, as a rule, prefer 
their city to any other part of the world.” 

“I’d starve there now that my hearing is gone. London 
takes everything from you, but gives you nothing in re- 
turn. I’m only too grateful to Mr. Benson for employ- 
ing me here, considering the nature of my affliction. No 
London hotel would give me a job now. But though I 
do say it, sir, I think I make myself useful to Mr. Benson, 
and earn my keep and the few shillings he gives me. I 
save him all the trouble I can.” 

This was undoubtedly true, as Colwyn had observed 
during his former visit to the inn. The deaf waiter was, 
to all intents and purposes, the real manager of the inn, 
leaving the innkeeper free to pursue his solitary life while 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


229 


he attended to the bar and the cellar, helped Ann with 
the work, and waited on infrequent travellers. Doubt- 
less the arrangement suited both, though it could not 
have been profitable to either, for there was little more 
than a bare living for one in such a place. 

Looking up suddenly from his plate, Colwyn caught 
the waiter’s black eyes fixed on him in a keen penetrat- 
ing gaze. Meeting the detective’s eyes, Charles instantly 
lowered his own. But for the latter action Colwyn would 
have thought nothing of the incident, for he was aware 
that Charles, on account of his deafness, had to watch the 
lips of people he was serving in order to read their lips. 
But if Charles had been merely watching for him to 
speak he would not have felt impelled to avert his gaze 
when detected. The sudden lowering of his eyes was the 
swift unconscious action of a man taken by surprise. 
The detective realised that Charles did not accept the 
reason he had given to account for his second visit to the 
inn. Charles evidently suspected that that reason masked 
some ulterior motive. 

Colwyn finished his dinner and produced his cigar-case. 
Selecting a cigar, he lit it with a match from the box 
Peggy had given him that day. 

“Have you ever seen this box before, Charles?” he 
said, placing the box on the table. 

The waiter picked up the little silver and enamel box 
and examined it attentively. 

“I have, sir,” he said, handing it back. “It is Mr. 
Penreath’s.” 

“How do you recognise it ?” 

“By the letters in enamel, sir. I noticed them that 
night at the dinner table, when I was holding Mr. Pen- 
reath’s candlestick while he lit it with a match from that 
box.” 


2 3 o THE SHRIEKING PIT 

“Did he put it back in his pocket after lighting the 
candle ?” 

“Yes, sir; into his vest pocket/’ 

“It was picked up in Mr. Glenthorpe’s room after the 
murder was committed. A strong clue, Charles ! Many 
a man has been hanged on less.” 

“No doubt, sir.” 

The waiter, balancing a tray on his deformed arm, 
proceeded to clear the table. When he had completed 
his task he asked the detective if he needed him any more, 
because if he did not it was time for him to go into the 
bar. On Colwyn saying that he needed nothing further 
he noiselessly withdrew, steadying the loaded tray with 
his sound hand. 

Colwyn spent the evening sitting by the fire, smoking. 
It was fortunate he had plenty to think about, for the inn 
did not offer any resources in the way of reading to occupy 
the mind of the chance visitor to its roof. There were 
a few books in the recess by the fireplace, but they con- 
sisted of bound volumes of The Norfolk Sporting Gazette 
from i860 to 1870, with an odd volume on Fishing on the 
Broads and an obsolete Farmer s’ Annual. The past oc- 
cupants of the inn had evidently been keen sportsmen, 
for there were specimens of stuffed fowl and fish ranged 
in glass cases around the walls, and two old rusty fowling 
pieces and a fishing rod hung suspended near the ceiling. 

Shortly after nine o’clock the innkeeper entered the 
room with a candlestick, which he placed on the table. 
He explained that it was his custom to go upstairs early, 
in order to sit with his mother for a little while before 
he retired. The poor soul looked for it, he said, and 
grew restless if he was late. 

“Who is sitting with her at present?” inquired the de- 
tective. 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


231 


“My daughter, sir. She always waits till I go up.” 

“You never leave her alone, then?” 

“Only at night-time, sir. The doctor told me she 
could be safely left at night. She sleeps fairly well, 
considering, though when there’s wild weather I always 
go in to her. The sound of the wind shrieking across 
the marshes from the sea excites her, and we get a lot 
of that sort of weather on the Norfolk coast, particularly 
in the winter months. I wish I could afford to have her 
better looked after, but I cannot, and that’s the long and 
short of it.” 

“Things are pretty bad with you, Benson?” 

“Very bad, indeed, sir. It keeps me awake at night, 
wondering where it’s all going to end. However, I don’t 
want to burden you with my troubles — I suppose we all 
have our own to bear. I merely came in to bring your 
candlestick, and to ask you if there is anything you want 
before I go to bed. Charles is gone to his room, but Ann 
is still up.” 

“Tell Ann she need not sit up on my account. I need 
nothing further, and I can find my way to my room. 
Is it ready yet?” 

“Quite, sir. Ann has just been up there, putting on 
some fresh sheets. Perhaps you wouldn’t mind turning 
off the gas at the meter as you go up — it is just under- 
neath the stairs. If you would not mind the trouble Ann 
could then go to bed. We keep early hours here, as a 
rule. There is nothing to sit up for.” 

“I’ll turn off the gas — I know where the meter is. 
How is it, Benson, that the gas is laid on in only two 
of the rooms upstairs — the rooms Mr. Glenthorpe used to 
occupy ? It would have been an easy matter to lay it on 
to the adjoining rooms, once the pipes had been taken 
upstairs.” 


232 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


“That’s quite true, sir, but the gas was taken upstairs 
on Mr. Glenthorpe’s account, shortly after he came here. 
He thought he would like it, and he paid the bill for 
having it fixed. But after it was laid on he rarely used 
it. He said he found the gaslight trying for his eyes 
when he wanted to read in bed, so he got a reading lamp.” 

“And yet the gas tap was partly turned on in his room 
the morning after the murder,” remarked Colwyn medi- 
tatively. 

“Perhaps the murderer turned it on,” suggested the 
innkeeper in a low tone. 

But there was a slight tremor in his voice that did 
not escape the keen ears of the detective. 

“That is possible, but the point was not cleared up at 
the trial; it probably never will be now,” he replied, 
eyeing the innkeeper attentively. “And the incandescent 
burner was broken too. Have you had a new burner 
attached, Benson?” 

“No, sir. The room has never been used since.” 

“It’s a queer thing about that broken burner. That’s 
another point in this case that was not cleared up at the 
trial. Who do you think broke it?” 

“How should I know, sir?” His bird’s eyes, in their 
troubled shadow, turned uneasily from the detective’s 
glance. 

“Nevertheless, you can hazard an opinion. Why not? 
The case is over and done with now, and Penreath — or 
Ronald, as he called himself — is condemned to death. So 
who do you think broke that burner, Benson ?” 

“Who else but the murderer, sir ?” 

“That’s the police theory, I know, but I doubt whether 
Penreath was tall enough to strike it with his head. It’s 
more than six feet from the ground.” The detective 
threw a critical glance over the innkeeper’s figure as 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


233 


though he were measuring his height with his eye. “You 
are well over six feet, Benson — you might have done it.” 

It was a chance shot, but the effect was remarkable. 
The innkeeper swung his small head on the top of his 
long neck in the direction of the detective, with a strange 
gesture, like a pinioned eagle twisting in a trap. 

“What makes you say that!” he cried, and his voice 
had a new and strident note. “I had nothing whatever 
to do with it.” 

“What do you mean?” replied the detective sternly. 
“What do you suppose I am suggesting ?” 

“I beg your pardon, sir,” replied the other. “The fact 
is I have not been myself for some time past.” 

His voice broke off in an odd tremor, and Colwyn 
noticed that the long thin hand he stretched out, as 
though to deprecate his previous violence, was shaking 
violently. 

“What’s the matter with you, man?” The detective 
eyed him keenly. “Your nerve has gone.” 

“I know it has, sir. What happened in this house a 
fortnight ago upset me terribly, and I haven’t got over 
it yet. I have other troubles as well — private troubles. 
I’ve had to sit up with mother a good deal lately.” 

“You’d better take a few doses of bromide,” said the 
detective brusquely. “A man with your nerves should not 
live in a place like this. You had better go to bed now. 
Good night.” 

“Good night, sir.” The innkeeper hurried out of the 
room without another word. 

Colwyn sat by the fire for some time longer pondering 
over this unexpected incident, until the kitchen clock 
chiming eleven warned him to go to bed. He turned off 
the gas at the meter underneath the stairs as Benson had 
requested. When he reached the room in which Mr. 


234 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


Glenthorpe had been murdered, he paused outside the 
door, and turned the handle. The door was locked. 

As he was about to enter the adjoining bedroom which 
had been allotted to him, a slender pencil of light pierced 
the darkness of the passage leading off the one in which 
he stood. As he watched the gleam grew brighter and 
broader ; somebody was walking along the other passage. 
A moment later the innkeeper’s daughter came into view, 
carrying a candle. She advanced quickly to where the 
detective was standing. 

“I heard you coming upstairs,” she explained, in a 
whisper. "I have been waiting and listening at my door. 
I wanted to see you, but it is difficult for me to do so 
without the others knowing. So I thought I would wait. 
I wanted to let you know that if you wish to see me at 
any time — if you need me to do anything — perhaps you 
would put a note under my door, and I could meet you 
down by the breakwater at any time you appoint. No- 
body would see us there.” 

Colwyn nodded approvingly. Decidedly this girl was 
not lacking in resource and intelligence. 

“I am so glad you are here,” she went on earnestly. 
“I was afraid, after I left you to-day, that you might 
change your mind. I waited at one of the upstairs win- 
dows all the afternoon till I saw you coming. You will 
save him, won’t you?” 

She looked up at him with a faint smile, which, slight 
as it was, gave her face a new rare beauty. 

“I will try,” responded Colwyn, gravely. “Can you 
tell where the key of Mr. Glenthorpe’s room is kept?” 

“It hangs in the kitchen. Do you want it? I will get 
it for you. If Ann or Charles see me, they will not 
think it as strange as if they saw you.” 

She was so eager to be of use to him that she did not 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


235 

wait for his reply, but ran quickly and noiselessly along 
the passage, and down the stairs. In a very brief space 
she returned with the key, which she placed in his hand. 
“Is there anything else I can do?” she asked. 

“Nothing, except to tell me where you got the key. 
I want to put it back again without anybody knowing it 
has been used.” 

“It hangs on the kitchen dresser — the second hook. 
You cannot mistake it, because there is a padlock key 
and one of my father’s fishing lines hanging on the same 
hook.” 

“Then that is all you can do. I will let you know if 
I want to see you at any time.” 

“Thank you. Good night!” She was gone without 
another word. 

Colwyn stood at his door watching her until she dis- 
appeared into the passage which led to her own room. 
Then he turned into his bedroom and shut the door be- 
hind him. 

He walked to the window and threw it open. The sea 
mist, driving over the silent marshes like a cloud, touched 
his face coldly as he stood there, meditating on the 
strange turn of events which had brought him back to 
the inn to pursue his investigations into the murder at 
the point where he had left them more than a fortnight 
before. In that brief period how much had happened! 
Penreath had been tried and sentenced to death for a 
crime which Colwyn now believed he had not committed. 
Chance — no, Destiny — by placing in his hand a significant 
clue, had directed his footsteps thither, and left it for his 
intelligence to atone for his past blunder before it was 
too late. 

It was with a feeling that the hand of Destiny was 
upon him that Colwyn turned from the window and re- 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


236 

garded the little room with keen curiosity. Its drab 
interior held a secret which was a challenge to his in- 
telligence to discover. What had happened in that room 
the night Ronald slept there? He noted the articles of 
furniture one by one. Nothing seemed changed since he 
had last been in the room, the day after the murder was 
committed. There was a washstand near the window, 
a chest of drawers, a dressing table and a large wardrobe 
at the side of the bed. Colwyn looked at this last piece of 
furniture with the same interest he had felt when he saw 
it the first time. It was far too big and cumbrous a 
wardrobe for so small a room, about eight feet high 
and five feet in width, and it was placed in the most in- 
convenient part of the room, by the side of the bed, not 
far from the wall which abutted on the passage. He 
opened its double doors and looked within. The ward- 
robe was empty. 

Colwyn made a methodical search of the room in the 
hope of discovering something which would throw light 
on the events of the night of the murder. Doubtless the 
room had not been occupied^ since Penreath had slept 
there, and he might have left something behind him — 
perhaps some forgotten scrap of paper which might help 
to throw light on this strange and sinister mystery. In 
the detection of crime seeming trifles often lead to im- 
portant discoveries, as nobody was better aware than 
Colwyn. But though he searched the room with pains- 
taking care, he found nothing. 

It was while he was thus engaged that a faint rustle 
aroused his attention, and looking towards the comer 
of the room whence it proceeded, he saw a large rat 
crouching by the skirting-board watching him with ma- 
levolent eyes. Colwyn looked round for a weapon with 
which to hit it. The creature seemed to divine his in- 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 237 

tentions, for it scuttled squeaking across the room, and 
disappeared behind the wardrobe. 

Colwyn approached the wardrobe and pushed it back. 
As he did so, he had a curious sensation which he could 
hardly define. It was as though an unseen presence had 
entered the room, and was silently watching him. His 
actions seemed not of his own volition ; it was as though 
some force stronger than himself was urging him on. 
And, withal, he had the uncanny feeling that the whole 
incident of the rat and the wardrobe, and his share in it, 
was merely a repetition of something which had hap- 
pened in the room before. 

The wardrobe moved much more easily than he had 
expected, considering its weight and size. There was 
no rat behind it, but a hole under the skirting showed 
where the animal had made its escape. But it was the 
space where the wardrobe had stood that claimed Col- 
wyn’s attention. The reason why it had been placed 
in its previous position was made plain. The damp had 
penetrated the wall on that side, and had so rotted the 
wall paper that a large portion of it had fallen away. 

In the bare portion of the wall thus revealed, about 
two feet square, was a wooden trap door, fastened by 
a button. Colwyn unfastened the button, and opened the 
door. A black hole gaped at him. 

The light of the candle showed that the wall was hol- 
low, and the trap opened into the hollow space. There 
was nothing unusual in such a door in an old house ; Col- 
wyn had seen similar doors in other houses built with 
the old-fashioned thick walls. It was the primitive venti- 
lation of a past generation; the doors, when opened, 
permitted a free current of air to percolate through the 
building, and get to the foundations. But a further ex- 
amination of the hole revealed something which Colwyn 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


238 

had never seen before — a corresponding door on the 
other side of the wall. The other door opened into the 
bedroom which had been occupied by Mr. Glenthorpe. 
Colwyn pushed it with his hand, but it did not yield. It 
was doubtless fastened with a button on the outside, like 
the other. 

Colwyn, scrutinising the second door closely, noticed 
that the wood was worm-eaten and shrunken. For that 
reason it fitted but loosely into the aperture of the wall, 
and on the one side there was a wide crack which 
arrested Colwyn’s attention. It ran the whole length of 
the door, along the top — that is, horizontally — and was, 
perhaps, a quarter of an inch wide. 

With the tightened nerves which presage an important 
discovery, Colwyn felt for his pocket knife, opened the 
largest blade, and thrust it into the crack. It penetrated 
up to the handle. He ran the knife along the whole 
length of the crack without difficulty. There was no 
doubt it opened into the next room. 

Colwyn closed the trap-door carefully, and started to 
push the wardrobe back into its previous position. As 
he did so, his eye fell upon several tiny scraps of paper 
lying in the vacant space. He stooped, and picked them 
up. They were the torn fragments of a pocket-book 
leaf, which had been written upon. Colwyn endeavoured 
to place the fragments together and read the writing. 
But some of the pieces were missing, and he could only 
decipher two disjointed words — “Constance” and “for- 
give.” 

Slowly, almost mechanically, the detective felt for his 
pipe, lit it, and stood for a long time at the open window, 
gazing with set eyes into the brooding darkness, wrapped 
in profound thought, thinking of his discoveries and what 
they portended. 


CHAPTER XX 


Colwyn was astir with the first glimmering of a grey 
dawn. He wanted to test the police theory that the mur- 
der was committed by climbing from one bedroom to 
the other, but he did not desire to be discovered in the 
experiment by any of the inmates of the inn. 

The window of his bedroom was so small that it was 
difficult to get through, and there was a drop of more 
than eight feet from the ledge to the hillside. After one 
or two attempts Colwyn got out feet foremost, and when 
half way through wriggled his body round until he was 
able to grasp the window-ledge and drop to‘ the ground. 
The fall caused his heels to sink deeply into the clay of 
the hillside, which was moist and sticky after the rain. 

Colwyn closely examined the impression his heels had 
made, and then walked along until he stood underneath 
the window of the next room. It was an easy matter 
to climb through this window, which was larger, and 
closer to the ground — five feet from the hillside, at the 
most. Colwyn sprang on to the ledge, and tried the win- 
dow with his hand. It was unlocked. He pushed up the 
lower pane, and entered the room. 

From the window he walked straight to the bedside, 
noting, as he walked, that his footsteps left on the carpet 
crumbs of the red earth from outside, similar to those 
which had been found in the room the morning after the 
murder. He next examined the broken incandescent 
burner in the chandelier in the middle of the room, and 
took careful measurements of the distances between the 


239 


240 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


gas jet, the bedside and the door, observing, as he did 
so, that the gaslight was almost in a line with the foot 
of the bed. That was a point he had marked previously 
when Superintendent Galloway had suggested that the 
incandescent burner was broken by the murderer striking 
it with the corpse he was carrying. Colwyn had found 
it difficult to accept that point of view at the time, but 
now, in the light of recent discoveries, and the new 
theory of the crime which was gradually taking shape 
in his mind, it seemed almost incredible that the mur- 
derer, staggering under the weight of his ghastly burden, 
should have taken anything but the shortest track to the 
door. 

After examining the bed with an attentive eye, Col- 
wyn next looked for the small door in the wall. It was 
not apparent : the wall-paper appeared to cover the whole 
of the wall on that side of the room in unbroken con- 
tinuity. But a closer inspection revealed a slight fissure 
or crack, barely noticeable in the dark green wall-paper, 
extending an inch or so beyond a small picture suspended 
near the door of the room. When the picture was taken 
down the crack was more apparent, for it ran nearly 
the whole length of the space. The door had been 
papered over when the room was last papered, which 
was a long time ago, judging by the dingy condition of 
the wall-paper, and the crack had been caused by the 
shrinking of the woodwork of the door, as Colwyn had 
noticed the previous night. 

Colwyn let himself out of the room with the key Peggy 
had given him, locked the door behind him, and took the 
key down to the kitchen. It was still very early, and 
nbbody was stirring. Having hung the key on the hook 
of the dresser, he returned to his room. 

At breakfast time that morning Charles informed him, 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


241 


in his husky whisper, that he had to go over to Heath- 
field that day, to ascertain why the brewer had not sent 
a consignment of beer, which was several days overdue. 
Charles’ chief regret was that for some hours his guest 
would be left to the tender mercies of Ann, and he let 
it be understood that he had the poorest opinion of 
women as waitresses. But he promised to return in time 
to minister to Colwyn’s comforts at dinner. Somewhat 
amused, Colwyn told the fat man not to hurry back on 
his account, as Ann could look after him very well. 

As Colwyn was smoking a cigar in front of the inn 
after breakfast, he saw Charles setting out on his jour- 
ney, and watched his short fat form toil up the rise 
and disappear on the other side. Immediately after- 
wards the gaunt figure of the innkeeper emerged from 
the inn, prepared for a fishing excursion. He hesitated 
a moment on seeing Colwyn, then walked towards him 
and informed him that he was going to have a morning’s 
fishing in a river stream a couple of miles away, having 
heard good accounts in the bar overnight of the fish there 
since the recent rain. 

“Who will look after the inn, with both you and 
Charles away?” asked Colwyn, with a smile. 

The innkeeper, carefully bestowing a fishing-line in 
the capacious side pocket of his faded tweed coat, replied 
that as the inn was out of beer, and not likely to have 
any that day, there was not much lost by leaving it. That 
seemed to exhaust the possibilities of the conversation, 
but the innkeeper lingered, looking at his guest as though 
he had something on his mind. 

“I do not know if you care for fishing, sir,” he Re- 
marked, after a rather lengthy pause. “If you do, I 
should be happy at any time to show you a little sport. 


242 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


The fishing is very good about this district — as good as 
anywhere in Norfolk.” 

Colwyn was quick to divine what was passing in the 
innkeeper’s mind. He had been brooding over the inci- 
dent in the bar parlour of the previous night, and hoped 
by this awkward courtesy to remove the impression of 
his overnight rudeness from his visitor’s mind. As Col- 
wyn was equally desirous of allaying his fears, he thanked 
him for his offer, and stood chatting with him for some 
moments. His pleasant and natural manner had the effect 
of putting the innkeeper at his ease, and there was an 
obvious air of relief in his bearing as he wished the 
detective good morning and departed on his fishing ex- 
pedition. 

Colwyn spent the morning in a solitary walk along 
the marshes, thinking over the events of the night and 
morning. He returned to the inn for an early lunch, 
which was served by Ann, who gossiped to him freely 
of the small events which had constituted the daily life 
of the village since his previous visit. The principal of 
these, it seemed, had been the reappearance, after a long 
period of inaction, of the White Lady of the Shrieking 
Pit — an apparition which haunted the hut circles on the 
rise. Colwyn, recalling that Duney and Backlos im- 
agined they had encountered a spectre the night they 
saw Penreath on the edge of the wood, asked Ann who 
the “White Lady” was supposed to be. Ann was ret- 
icent at first. She admitted that she was a firm believer 
in the local tradition, which she had imbibed with her 
mother’s milk, but it was held to be unlucky to talk about 
the White Lady. However, her feminine desire to im- 
part information soon overcame her fears, and she 
launched forth into full particulars of the legend. I 
appeared that for generations past the deep pit on the 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


243 


rise in which Mr. Glenthorpe’s body had been thrown 
had been the haunt of a spirit known as the White 
Lady, who, from time to time, issued from the depths 
of the pit, clad in a white trailing garment, to wander 
along the hut circles on the rise, shrieking and sobbing 
piteously. Whose ghost she was, and why she shrieked, 
Ann was unable to say. Her appearances were infre- 
quent, with sometimes as long as a year between them, 
and the timely warning she gave of her coming by shriek- 
ing from the depths of the pit before making her appear- 
ance, enabled folk to keep indoors and avoid her when 
she was walking. As long as she wasn't seen by any- 
body, not much harm was done, but the sight of her was 
fatal to the beholder, who was sure to come to a swift 
and violent end. 

Ann related divers accredited instances of calamity 
which had followed swiftly upon an encounter with the 
White Lady, including that of her own sister’s husband, 
who had seen her one night going home, and the very 
next day had been kicked by a horse and killed on the spot. 
Ann’s grandmother, when a young girl, had heard her 
shrieking one night when she was going home, but had 
had the presence of mind to fall flat on her face until the 
shrieking had ceased, by which means she avoided seeing 
her, and had died comfortably in her bed at eighty-one in 
consequence. 

Colwyn gathered from the countrywoman’s story that 
the prevailing impression in the village was that Mr. Glen- 
thorpe’s murder was due to the interposition of the White 
Lady of the Shrieking Pit. The White Lady, after a long 
silence, had been heard to shriek once two nights before 
the murder, but the warning had not deterred Mr. Glen- 
thorpe from taking his nightly walk on the rise, although 
Ann, out of her liking and respect for the old gentle- 


244 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


man, had even ventured to forget her place and beg and 
implore him not to go. But he had laughed at her, and 
said if he met the White Lady he would stop and have a 
chat with her about her ancestors. Those were his very 
words, and they made her blood run cold at the time, 
though she little thought how soon he would be repenting 
of his foolhardiness in his coffin. If he had only listened 
to her he might have been alive that blessed day, for she 
hadn’t the slightest doubt he met the White Lady that 
night in his walk, and his doom was brought about in 
consequence. 

Ann concluded by solemnly urging Colwyn, as long as 
he remained at the inn, to keep indoors at night as he 
valued his life, for ever since the murder the White Lady 
had been particularly active, shrieking nearly every night, 
as though seeking another victim, and the whole village 
was frightened to stir out in consequence. Ann had re- 
luctantly to admit that she had never actually heard her 
shrieking herself — she was a heavy sleeper at any time 
— but there were those who had, plenty of them. Be- 
sides, hadn’t he heard that Charles, while shutting up the 
inn the very night poor Mr. Glenthorpe’s body had been 
taken away, had seen something white on the rise? On 
Colwyn replying that he had not heard this, Ann assured 
him the whole village believed that Charles had seen the 
White Lady, and regarded him as good as dead, and 
many were the speculations as to the manner in which 
his inevitable fate would fall. 

The relation of the legend of the White Lady lasted 
to the conclusion of lunch, and then Colwyn sauntered 
outside with a cigar, in order to make another examina- 
tion of the ground the murderer had covered in going 
to the pit. The body had been carried out the back way, 
across the green which separated the inn from the village, 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


245 


and up the rise to the pit. The green was now partly 
under water, and the track of the footprints leading to the 
rise had been obliterated by the heavy rains which had 
fallen since, but the soft surface retained the impression 
of Colwyn’s footsteps with the same distinctness with 
which it had held, and afterwards revealed, the track of 
the man who had carried the corpse to the pit. 

Colwyn examined the pit closely. The edges were wet 
and slippery, and in places the earth had been washed 
away. The sides, for some distance down, were lined 
with a thick growth of shrubs and birch. Colwyn knelt 
down on the edge and peered into the interior of the pit. 
He tested the strength of the climbing and creeping plants 
which twisted in snakelike growth in the interior. It 
seemed to him that it would be a comparatively easy 
matter to descend into the pit by their support, so far as 
they went. But how far did they go ? 

While he was thus occupied he heard the sound of 
footsteps crashing through the undergrowth of the little 
wood on the other side of the pit. A moment later a 
man, carrying a rabbit, and followed by a mongrel dog, 
came into view. It was Duney. He stared hard at Col- 
wyn and then advanced towards him with a grin of 
recognition. 

“Yow be lookin’ to see how t’owd ma’aster was hulled 
dune th’ pit?” he asked. 

"I was wondering how far the pit ran straight down,” 
replied Colwyn. “It seems to take a slight slope a little 
way down. Does it?” 

“I doan’t know narthin’ about th’ pit, and I doan’t want 
to,” replied Mr. Duney, backing away with a slightly 
pale face. “Doan’t yow meddle wi’ un, ma’aster. It’s a 
quare place, thissun.” 

“Why, what’s the matter with it ?” 


246 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


“Did you never hear that th’ pit’s haunted? Like 
enough nobody’d tell yow. Folk hereabowts aren’t ower- 
fond of talkin’ of th’ White Lady of th’ Shrieking Pit, 
for fear it should bring un bad luck.” 

“I’ve been hearing a little about her to-day. Is she 
any relation of Black Shuck, the ghost dog you were 
telling me about?” 

“It’s no larfin’ matter, ma’aster. You moind the day 
me and Billy Backlos come and towld yow about us 
seein’ that chap on th’ edge of yon wood that night? 
Well, just befower we seed un we heerd th’ rummiest 
kind of noise — summat atween a moan and a shriek, 
cornin’ from this ’ere pit. I reckon, from what’s hap- 
pened to that chap Ronald since, that it wor the White 
Lady of th’ Pit we heered. It’s lucky for us we didn’t 
see un.” 

“I remember at the time you mentioned something 
about it.” 

“Ay, she be a terr’ble bad sperrit,” said Mr. Duney, 
wagging his head unctuously. “She comes out of this 
yare pit wheer t’owd man was chucked, and wanders 
about the wood and th’ rise, a-yellin’ somefin awful. 
It’s nowt to hear her — we’ve all heerd her for that mat- 
ter — but to see her is to meet a bloody and violent end 
within the month. That’s why they call this ’ere pit 
'the Shrieking Pit.’ I’m thinkin’ that owd Mr. Glen- 
thorpe, who was alius fond of walkin’ up this way at 
nights, met her one night, and that’ll account for his 
own bloody end. And it’s my belief that she appeared to 
the young chap who was hidin’ in th’ woods the night we 
saw un. And look what’s happened to un ! He’s got to 
be hanged, which is a violent end, thow p’r’aps not 
bloody.” 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


247 


“If that’s the local belief, I wonder anybody went 
down into the pit to recover Mr. Glenthorpe’s body.” 

“Nobody wouldn’t ’a’ gone down but Herward. I 
wouldn’t ’a’ gone down for untowd gowd, but Herward 
comes from th’ Broads, and don’t know nartin’ about 
this part of the ma’shes. Besides, he ain’t no Christian, 
down’t care for no ghosts nor sperrits. I’ve often heerd 
un say so.” 

“Is it true that the White Lady has been seen since 
Mr. Glenthorpe was murdered?” 

“She’s been heered, shure enough. Billy Backlos, \yho 
lives closest to the rise, was a-tellin’ us in the Anchor 
bar that she woke him up two nights arter th’ murder, a- 
yowlin’ like an old tomcat, but Billy knew it worn’t a 
cat — it weer far more fearsome, wi gasps at th’ end. 
The deaf fat chap at Benson’s arst him what time this 
might be. Billy said he disremembered th’ time — mebbe 
it wor ten or a bit past. Then the fat chap said it wor 
just about that time the same night, as he wor shuttin’ 
up, he saw somefin white float up to th’ top of th’ pit. 
He thowt at th’ time it might be mist, thow there weren’t 
much mist on th’ ma’shes that night, but now he says 
’es sure that it wor the White Lady from the Shrieking 
Pit that he saw. ‘Then Gawdamighty help yow, poor fat 
chap,’ says Billy, looking at him solemn-like. ‘The hearin’ 
of her is narthin’, it’s th’ seein’ o’ her that’s the trouble.’ 
The poor fat chap a’ been nigh skeered out o’ his wits 
ever since, and nobody in th’ village wud go near th’ pit 
a’ nighttimes — no, not for a fortin. I ain’t sure as it’s 
safe to be here even in daytimes, thow I never heered of 
her cornin’ out in the light.” Mr. Duney turned reso- 
lutely away from the pit, and called to his dog, who was 
sitting near the edge, regarding his master with blinking 
eyes and lolling tongue. “I’ll be goin’, in case that 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


248 

Queensmead sees me from th’ village. I cot this coney 
fair and square in th’ open, but it be hard to make 
Queensmead believe it. Well, Til be goin\ Good 
momin’, ma’aster.” 

He trudged away across the rise, with his dog follow- 
ing at his heels. Colwyn was about to turn away also, 
when his eye was caught by a scrap of stained and dis- 
coloured paper lying near the edge of the pit, where the 
rain had washed away some of the earth. He stooped, 
and picked it up. It was a slip of white paper, about 
five inches long, and perhaps three inches in width, quite 
blank, but with a very apparent watermark, consisting 
of a number of parallel waving lines, close together, 
running across the surface. Although the watermark 
was an unusual one, it seemed strangly familiar to Col- 
wyn, who tried to recall where he had seen it before. 
But memory is a tricky thing. Although Colwyn’ s mem- 
ory instantly recognised the watermark on the paper, he 
could not, for the moment, recollect where he had seen 
it, though it seemed as familiar to him as the face of 
some old acquaintance whose name he had temporarily 
forgotten. Colwyn ultimately gave up the effort for the 
time being, and placed the piece of paper in his pocket- 
book, knowing that memory would, sooner or later, per- 
form unconsciously the effort it refused to make when 
asked. 

Colwyn spent the afternoon in another solitary walk, 
and darkness had set in before he returned to the village. 
As he reached the inn he glanced towards the hut circles, 
and was startled to see something white move slowly along 
by the edge of the Shrieking Pit and vanish in the wood. 
There was something so weird and ghostly in the spec- 
tacle that Colwyn was momentarily astounded by it. 
Then his eye fell on the sea mist which covered the 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


249 


marshes in a white shroud, and he smiled slightly. It 
was not the White Lady of the Shrieking Pit he had 
seen, but a spiral of mist, floating across the rise. 

The sight brought back to his mind the stories he had 
heard that day, and when he was seated at dinner a little 
later he casually asked Charles if he believed in ghosts. 
The fat man, with a sudden uplifting of his black eyes, 
as though to ascertain whether Colwyn was speaking 
seriously, replied that he did not. 

“I’m surprised to hear of your scepticism, Charles, 
for Pm told that the apparition from the pit — the White 
Lady, as she is called — has favoured you with a special 
appearance/’ said Colwyn, in a bantering tone. 

“I see what you mean now, sir. I didn’t understand 
you at first. It was like this : some of the villagers were 
talking about this ghost in the bar a few nights back, and 
one or two of the villagers, who all firmly believed in it, 
declared that they had heard her wandering about the 
previous night, moaning and shrieking, as is supposed to 
be her custom. I, more by way of a joke than anything 
else, told them I had seen something white on the rise 
the previous night, when I was shutting up the inn. But 
the whole village has got it into their heads that I saw 
the White Lady, and they think because Fve seen her 
I’m a doomed man. The country folk round about here 
are an ignorant and superstitious lot, sir.” 

“And did you actually see anything, Charles, the night 
you speak of?” 

“I saw something, sir — something long and white — like 
a moving white pillar, if I may so express myself. While 
I looked it vanished into the woods.” 

“It was probably mist. I saw something similar this 
evening !” 

“Very likely, sir. I do not think it was a ghost.” 


250 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


Colwyn did not pursue the subject further, though he 
was struck by the wide difference between Charles’ ac- 
count of the incident and that given to him by Duney at 
the pit that afternoon. 

When Charles had cleared the table Colwyn sat smok- 
ing and thinking until late. After he was sure that the 
rest of the inmates of the inn had retired, he went to 
the kitchen and took the key of Mr. Glenthorpe’s room 
from the hook of the dresser. When he reached his own 
bedroom, his first act was to push back the wardrobe and 
open the trap door he had discovered the previous night. 
He looked at his watch, and found that the hour was a 
little after eleven. He decided to wait for half an hour 
before carrying out the experiment he contemplated. By 
midnight he would be fairly safe from the fear of dis- 
covery. He lay down on his bed to pass the intervening 
time, but he was so tired that he fell asleep almost im- 
mediately. 

He awakened with a start, and sat up, staring into the 
black darkness. For a moment or two he did not realise 
his surroundings, then the sound of stealthy footsteps 
passing his door brought him back to instant wakeful- 
ness. The footsteps halted — outside his door, it seemed 
to Colwyn. There followed the sound of a hand fumbling 
with a lock, followed by the shooting of a bolt and the 
creaking of a door. The truth flashed upon the detective ; 
somebody was entering the next room. As he listened, 
there was the scrape of a match, and a moment later a 
narrow shaft of light streamed through the open wall- 
door into his room. 

Colwyn got noiselessly off his bed and looked through 
the crack in the inner small door into the other room. 
The picture on the other side of the wall narrowed his 
range of vision, but through the inch or so of crack ex- 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


251 

tending beyond the picture he was able to see clearly that 
portion of the adjoining bedroom in which the bed stood. 
Near the bed, examining with the light of a candle the 
contents of the writing table which stood alongside of 
it, was Benson, the innkeeper. 

He was searching for something — rummaging through 
the drawers of the table, taking out papers and envelopes, 
and tearing them open with a furious desperate energy, 
pausing every now and again to look hurriedly over his 
shoulder, as though he expected to see some apparition 
start up from the shadowy corners. The search was 
apparently fruitless, for presently he crammed the papers 
back into the drawers with the same feverish haste, and, 
walking rapidly across the room, passed out of the view 
of the watcher on the other side, for the picture which 
hung on the inside wall prevented Colwyn seeing beyond 
the foot of the bed. Although the innkeeper could not 
now be seen, the sound of his stealthy quick movements, 
and the flickering lights cast by the candle he carried, 
suggested plainly enough that he was continuing his 
search in that portion of the room which was not visible 
through the crack. 

In a few minutes he came back into Colwyn’s range 
of vision, looking dusty and dishevelled, with drops of 
perspiration starting from his face. With a savage ges- 
ture, which was akin to despair, he wiped the perspira- 
tion from his face, and tossed back his long hair from 
his forehead. It was the first time Colwyn had seen his 
forehead uncovered, and a thrill ran through him as he 
noticed a deep bruise high upon the left temple. The next 
moment the innkeeper walked swiftly out of the room, 
and Colwyn heard him close the door softly behind him. 

Colwyn waited awhile. When everything seemed 
quiet, he cautiously opened his door in the dark, and 


252 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


tried the door of the adjoining room. It was locked. 

The innkeeper, then, had a key to the murdered man’s 
room. But what key was it— the key which had been in 
Mr. Glenthorpe’s possession the night he was murdered 
and had not been recovered since? That might be so, 
but the assumption was not a certain one. And what 
was the innkeeper searching for ? Money ? The treasury 
notes which Mr. Glenthorpe had drawn out of the bank 
the day he was murdered, which had never been found? 
Money — notes ! 

By one of those hidden and unaccountable processes 
of the human brain, the association of ideas recalled to 
Colwyn’s mind where he had previously seen the peculiar 
watermark of waving lines visible on the piece of paper 
he had picked up at the brink of the pit that afternoon : 
it was the Government watermark of the first issue of 
War Treasury notes. 

Colwyn lit his bedroom candle, and examined the piece 
of paper in his pocket-book with a new and keen inter- 
est. There was no doubt about it, the mark on the dirty 
blank paper was undoubtedly the Treasury watermark. 
But how came such a mark, designed exclusively for the 
protection of the Treasury against bank-note forgeries, 
to appear on a dirty scrap of paper? 

As he stood there, turning the bit of paper over and 
over, in his hand, puzzling over the problem, the solution 
flashed into his mind — a solution so simple, yet, withal, 
so remarkable, that he hesitated to believe it possible. 
But a further examination of the paper removed his" 
doubts. Chance had placed in his hands another clue, 
and the most important he had yet discovered, to help 
him in the elucidation of the mystery of the murder of 
Roger Glenthorpe. But to verify that clue it would be 
necessary for him to descend the pit. 


CHAPTER XXI 


* An orange crescent of a waning moon was sinking in 
a black sky as Colwyn let himself quietly out of the door 
and took his way up to the rise. But the darkness of 
the night was fading fast before the grey dawn of the 
coming day, and in the marshes below the birds were 
beginning to stir and call among the reeds. 

Colwyn waited for the first light of dawn before at- 
tempting the descent of the pit. His plan was to climb 
down by the creepers as far as they went, and descend 
the remainder of the distance by the rope, which he would 
fasten to one of the shrubs growing in the interior. He 
realised that his chances of success depended on the 
slope of the pit and the depth to which the shrubs grew, 
but the attempt was well worth making. Assistance 
would have made the task much easier, but publicity 
was the thing Colwyn desired most to avoid at that 
stage of his investigations. There would be time enough 
to consider the question of seeking help if he failed in 
his individual effort. 

He made his plans carefully before commencing the 
descent. He first tested a rope he had found in the 
lumber room of the inn; it was thin but strong and 
capable of bearing the weight of a heavier man than 
himself. The rope was not more than fifteen feet in 
length, but if the hardy climbing plants which lined the 
sides of the pit were capable of supporting him ten or 
twelve feet down, that length should be sufficient for his 
purpose. Having tested the rope and coiled it, he 
253 


254 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


slipped it into the right-hand pocket of his coat with 
one end hanging out. Next he opened his knife, and 
placed it with a candle and a box of matches in his other 
pocket. Then turning on his electric torch, he lowered 
himself cautiously into the pit by the creepers which 
fringed the surface. 

There was no difficulty about the descent for the first 
eight or ten feet. Then the shrubs that had afforded 
foothold for his feet suddenly ceased, and the foot that 
he had thrust down for another perch touched nothing 
but the slippery side of the pit. Clinging firmly with 
his left hand to the network of vegetation which grew 
above his head, Colwyn flashed his electric torch into 
the blackness of the pit beneath him. One or two long 
tendrils of the climbing plants which grew higher up 
dangled like pendulous snakes, but the vegetable growth 
ceased at that point. Beneath him the naked sides of the 
pit gleamed sleek and wet in the rays of the torch. 

Pulling himself up a little way to gain a securer foot- 
ing, Colwyn took the coil of rope from his pocket, and 
selecting a strong withe which hung near him, sought to 
fasten the end of the rope to it. It took him some time 
to do this with the hand he had at liberty, but at length 
he accomplished it to his satisfaction, and then he allowed 
the coils of the rope to fall into the pit. He next essayed 
to test the strength of the support, by pulling at it. To 
his disappointment, his first vigorous tug snapped the 
withe to which the rope was attached. He tied the rope 
to a stronger growth, but with no better result: the 
growths seemed brittle, and incapable of bearing a great 
strain when tested separately. It was the twisted net- 
work of the withes and twigs which gave the climbing 
plants inside the pit sufficient toughness to support his 
weight. Taken singly, they had very little strength. 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


255 


Colwyn reluctantly realised that it would be folly to en- 
deavour to attempt the further descent of the pit by their 
frail support, and he decided to relinquish the attempt. 

As he was about to ascend, the light of the torch 
brought into view that part of the pit to which he was 
clinging, and he noticed that the testing of the withes 
had torn away a portion of the leafy screen, revealing 
the black and slimy surface of the pit’s side. Colwyn 
was amazed to see a small peg, with a fishing line attached 
to it, sticking in the bare earth thus exposed. Somebody 
had been down the pit and placed it there — recently, 
judging by the appearance of the peg, which was clean 
and newly cut. What was at the other end of the line, 
which dangled in the darkness of the pit? A better hid- 
ing place for anything valuable could not have been de- 
vised. The thin fishing line was indiscernible against 
the slimy side of the pit, and Colwyn realised that he 
would never have discovered it had it not been for the 
lucky accident which had exposed the peg to which the 
line was anchored. A place of concealment chosen at 
the expense of so much trouble and risk indicated some- 
thing well worth concealing, and it was with a strong 
premonition of what was suspended down the pit that the 
detective, taking a firmer hold of the twining tendrils 
above his head, began to haul up the line. The weight 
at the end was slight; the line came up readily enough, 
foot after foot running through his hand, and then, 
finally, a small oblong packet, firmly fastened and knotted 
to the end of the line. 

Colwyn examined the packet by the light of the torch. 
It was a man’s pocket-book of black morocco leather, a 
large and serviceable article, thick and heavy. The de- 
tective did not need the information conveyed by the 
initials “R. G.” stamped in silver lettering on one side, 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


256 

to enlighten him as to the owner of the pocket-book and 
what it contained. 

Removing the peg from the earth, Colwyn was about 
to place the pocket-book and the line in his pocket, 
but on second thoughts he restored the peg to its 
former position, and endeavoured to untie the knots 
by which the pocket-book was fastened to the line. 
It was difficult to do this with one hand, but, by 
placing the pocket-book in his pocket, and picking at 
the knots one by one, he at length unfastened it from the 
line. He tied his own pocket-book to the end of the line, 
and dropped it back into the pit. He next replaced the 
greenery tom from the spot where the peg rested. When 
he had restored, as far as he could, the original appear- 
ance of the hiding place, he ascended swiftly to the sur- 
face. 

The first act, on reaching the fresh air, was to examine 
the contents of the pocket-book. As he anticipated, it 
was crammed full of notes of the first Treasury issue. 
He did not take them out to count them ; a rook, watch- 
ing him curiously from the edge of the wood, warned 
him of the danger of human eyes. 

Here, then, was the end of his investigations, and a 
discovery which would necessitate his departure from the 
inn sooner than he had anticipated. Nothing remained 
for him to do but to acquaint the authorities with the 
fresh facts he had brought to light, indicate the man to 
whom those facts pointed, and endeavour to see righted 
the monstrous act of injustice which had condemned an 
innocent man to the ignominy of a shameful death. The 
sooner that task was commenced the better. The law 
was swift to grasp and slow to release, and many were 
the formalities to be gone through before the conviction 
of a wrongly convicted man could be quashed, especially 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


257 


in a grave charge like murder. Only on the most con- 
vincing fresh evidence could the jury's verdict be upset, 
and none knew better than Colwyn that such evidence 
had not yet been obtained. But the additional facts dis- 
covered during his second visit to the inn, if not in them- 
selves sufficient to upset the verdict against Penreath, 
nevertheless threw an entirely new light on the crime, 
which, if speedily followed up, would prove Penreath’s 
innocence by revealing the actual murderer. The only 
question was whether the police would use the clues he 
was going to place in their hands in the manner he 
wished them to be used. If they didn’t — but Colwyn 
refused to contemplate that possibility. His mind re- 
verted to the chief constable of Norfolk. He felt he was 
on firm ground in believing that Mr. Cromering would 
act promptly once he was certain that there had been a 
miscarriage of justice in the Glenthorpe case. 

It would be necessary to arrange his departure from 
the inn in such a manner as not to arouse suspicion, and 
also to have the pit watched in case any attempt was 
made to recover the money he had found that morning. 
Colwyn, after some consideration, decided to invoke the 
aid of Police Constable Queensmead. His brief asso- 
ciation with Queensmead had convinced him that the 
village constable was discreet and intelligent. 

It was still very early as he descended to the village 
and sought the constable’s house. His knock at the 
door was not immediately answered, but after the lapse 
of a minute or two the door was unbolted, and the con- 
stable’s face appeared. When he saw who his visitor 
was he asked to be excused while he put on some clothes. 
He was back speedily, and ushered Colwyn into the 
room in which he did his official business. 

“Queensmead,” said the detective earnestly, “I have 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


258 

to go to Norwich, and I want you to do something for me 
in my absence. I am going to tell you something in strict 
confidence. Fresh facts have come to light in the Glen- 
thorpe case. You remember Mr. Glenthorpe’s money, 
which was supposed to have been stolen by Penreath, but 
which was never recovered. I found it this morning 
down the pit where the body was thrown/’ 

“How did you get down the pit?” asked Queensmead. 

“I climbed down the creepers as far as they went. I 
had a rope for the rest of the descent, but it wasn’t 
needed, for I found Mr. Glenthorpe’s pocket-book sus- 
pended by a cord about ten feet down. Here it is.” 

Queensmead scrutinised the pocket-book and its con- 
tents, and on handing it back remarked: 

“Do you think Penreath returned and concealed him- 
self in the wood to recover these notes?” 

Colwyn was struck by the penetration of this remark. 

“No, quite the contrary,” he replied. “Your deduction 
is drawn from an isolated fact. It has to be taken in 
conjunction with other fresh facts which have come to 
light — facts which put an entirely fresh complexion on 
the case, and tend to exculpate Penreath.” 

“I would rather not know what they are, then,” re- 
plied Queensmead quietly. “It is better I should not 
know too much. You see, it might be awkward, in more 
ways than one, if things are turning out as you say. What 
is it you want me to do ?” 

“I want you to watch the pit on the rise while I am 
away, chiefly at night. It is of paramount importance 
that the man whom I believe to be the thief and murderer 
should not be allowed to escape in my absence. I do not 
think that he has any suspicions, so far, and it is prac- 
tically certain nobody saw me descend the pit. But if 
he should, by any chance, go down to the pit for his 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


259 


money, and find it gone, he would know he had been dis- 
covered, and instantly seek safety in flight. That must 
be prevented.” 

“How ?” 

“You must arrest him. ,, 

“I do not see how that can be done/’ replied Queens- 
mead. “I cannot take upon myself to arrest a man 
simply for descending the pit. It’s not against the law.” 

“In order to get over that difficulty I left my own 
pocket-book tied to the cord in the pit,” replied Colwyn. 
“It’s a black leather one, like Mr. Glenthorpe’s. If the 
thief goes down he is hardly likely to discover the dif- 
ference till he gets to the surface. You can arrest him 
for the theft of my pocket-book, which contains a little 
money. You can make a formal entry of my complaint 
of my loss.” 

“Well, I’ve heard that you were a cool customer, Mr. 
Colwyn, and now I believe it,” replied Queensmead, 
laughing outright. “Fancy thinking out a plan like that 
down in the pit! But as you’ve made the complaint it’s 
my duty to enter it, and keep a look out for your lost 
pocket-book. I’ll watch the pit, and if anybody goes 
down it I’ll arrest him.” 

“If the attempt is made it will not be in daytime — it 
will be in the night, you may be sure of that. I want 
you to watch the pit at night. The life of an innocent 
man may depend on your vigilance. It will only be for 
two nights, or three at the most. I shall certainly return 
within three days.” 

“You may depend on me,” replied the constable. “I 
will go to the pit as soon as it grows dark, and watch from 
the edge of the wood till daylight.” 

“Thank you,” said Colwyn. “I felt sure you would do 
it when you knew what was at stake. I have an idea 


26 o 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


that your vigil will not be disturbed, but I want to be 
on the safe side. I suppose you are not afraid of the 
ghost ?” 

“You have heard of the White Lady of the Shrieking 
Pit?” said Queensmead, looking at the other curiously. 

“I have heard of her, but I have not heard her, or seen 
her. Have you ?” 

“I cannot say I have, but I live at the wrong end of 
the village, and I never go out at night. But there are 
plenty of villagers, principally customers of the Anchor , 
who are prepared to take their Bible oath that they have 
heard her — if not seen her. The White Lady has ter- 
rorised the whole village — since the murder.” 

There was something in the tone of the last three words 
which attracted the detective’s attention. 

“There was not much talk of the ghost before the mur- 
der, then?” he asked. 

“Very little. I have been stationed here for two years, 
and hardly knew of its existence. Of course, it’s a deep- 
rooted local tradition, and every villager has heard the 
story in childhood, and most of them believe it. Many 
of them actually think they have heard moans and shrieks 
coming from the rise during this last week or so. It’s a 
lonely sort of place, with very little to talk about; it 
doesn’t take much to get a story like that going round.” 

“Then you think there is some connection between the 
reappearance of the ghost and the hiding of the money 
in the pit it is supposed to haunt?” 

“It’s not my business to draw inferences of that kind, 
sir. I leave that to my betters, if they think fit to do so. 
I am only the village constable.” 

“But you’ve already inferred that the legend has been 
spread round again by means of gossip at the Anchor. 
Was it started there ?” 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


261 


“It was and it wasn’t. A fool of a fellow named 
Duney burst into the tap-room one night and said he 
had heard the White Lady shrieking, and Charles — that’s 
the waiter — declared that he had seen something white 
the same night. That was the start of the business.” 

“So I have heard. But what has kept it going ever 
since ?” 

“Well, from what I hear — I never go to the inn myself, 
but a local policeman learns all the gossip in a small place 
like this — the subject is brought up in the bar-room 
every evening, either by the innkeeper or Charles, and 
discussed till closing time, when the silly villagers go 
home, huddled together like a flock of sheep, not daring 
to look round for fear of seeing the White Lady.” 

“Do Benson and Charles both believe in the ghost?” 

“It seems as if they do.” The constable’s voice was 
noncommittal. 

As Colwyn rose to go, Queensmead looked at him with 
a trace of hesitation in his manner. 

“Perhaps you’d answer me a question, sir,” he said in 
a low tone, as though afraid of being overheard. “That 
greenery that grows inside the pit, by which you climbed 
down, will it support a heavy weight?” 

“It will hold a far heavier man than you, if you are 
thinking of making the descent,” said Colwyn laughingly. 
“It’s a case of unity is strength. The . tendrils of the 
climbing plants are so twisted together that they are as 
tough as ropes.” 

“Thank you. What time will you reach here when you 
return ?” 

“Probably not before dusk, but certainly by then. In 
the meantime, of course, you will not breathe a word of 
this to anybody.” 


262 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


“I am not likely to do that. I shall keep a close watch 
on the pit till I see you again.” 

“That’s right. Good day.” 

“Good day, sir.” 

It still wanted a few minutes to seven when Colwyn 
returned to the inn. The front door was as he had left 
it, closed, but unlocked. The house was silent: nobody 
was yet stirring. He locked the door after him, and 
proceeded to his room, pleased to think he had not been 
seen going or coming. His first act on reaching his room 
was to lock the door and count the money in the pocket- 
book. There was £305 — £300 in single Treasury notes, 
and one five-pound note. The case contained nothing 
else except a faded newspaper clipping on Fossil Sponges. 
Colwyn replaced the notes, and put the case in an inside 
breast pocket. He next performed the best kind of toilet 
the primitive resources of the inn permitted, and occupied 
himself for an hour or so in completing his notes of the 
case. 

While he was breakfasting he saw the innkeeper pass- 
ing the half-open door, and he called him into the room 
and told him to let him have his bill without delay, as 
he was returning to Durrington that morning. The inn- 
keeper made no comment on hearing his guest’s intention, 
and Charles brought in the bill a little later. Colwyn, 
as he paid it, casually asked Charles if he happened to 
know the time of the morning trains from Heathfield. 

“There’s one to Durrington at eleven o’clock, sir,” said 
the waiter, consulting a greasy time-table. “There’s one 
at 9 *.30, but it’s a good three miles to the station, and you 
could not catch it because there’s no way of getting there 
except by walking, as you know, sir.” 

“The eleven o’clock train will suit me,” said Colwyn, 
consulting his watch. 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


263 


“Shall I go and get your bag, sir ?” 

“No, thanks, Eve not packed it yet.” 

Colwyn went upstairs shortly afterwards determined to 
pack his bag and leave the place as soon as possible. As 
he was about to enter his room he saw Peggy appear at 
the end of the passage. She looked at him with a 
timid, wistful smile, and made a step towards him, as 
though she would speak to him. Colwyn pretended not to 
see her, and hurried into his room and shut the door. 
How could he tell her what she had so innocently done 
in recalling him to the inn? How inform her what the 
cost of saving her lover would be to her? Somebody else 
must break the news to her, when it came to that. He 
packed his things quickly, anxious only to leave a place 
which had grown repugnant to him, and to drop the dis- 
simulation which had become hateful. Never had he so. 
acutely realised how little a man is master of his actions 
when entangled in the strange current of Destiny which 
men label Chance. 

When he emerged from the room with his bag, Peggy 
was no longer visible. The innkeeper was standing in 
the passage as he went downstairs, and Colwyn nodded 
to him as he passed. He breathed easier in the fresh 
morning air, and set out briskly for the station. 

He reached Heathfield an hour later, and found he had 
nearly half an hour to wait for his train. The first ten 
minutes of that time he utilised despatching two tele- 
grams. One was to the chief constable of Norfolk, at 
Norwich, and the other to Mr. Oakham, in London. In 
the latter telegram he indicated that fresh discoveries had 
come to light in Penreath’s case, and he asked the solicitor 
to go as soon as possible to Norwich where he would 
await him at his hotel. 


CHAPTER XXII 


Colwyn reached Durrington by midday, and proceeded 
to the hotel for his letters and lunch. After a cold meal 
served by a shivering waiter in the chilly dining room 
he went to the garage where he had left his car, and set 
out for Norwich. He arrived at the cathedral city late in 
the afternoon, and drove to the hotel where Mr. Oakham 
had stayed. While engaging a room, he told the clerk 
that he expected Mr. Oakham from London, and asked 
to be informed immediately he arrived. After making 
these arrangements the detective left the hotel and went to 
the city library, where he spent the next couple of hours 
making notes from legal statutes and the Criminal Ap- 
peal Act. 

When he returned to the hotel for dinner the clerk 
informed him that Mr. Oakham had arrived a short time 
previously, and had requested that Mr. Colwyn would 
join him at dinner. Colwyn proceeded to the dining- 
room, and saw Mr. Oakham dining in solitary state at a 
large table, reading a London evening newspaper between 
the courses. He looked up as Colwyn approached, and 
rose and shook hands. 

“This is an unexpected pleasure,” said the detective. 
“I hardly thought you would get here before the morn- 
ing.” 

“I had arranged to visit Norwich to-morrow, but in 
view of the urgent nature of your telegram I decided to 
catch the afternoon train instead,” replied the solicitor. 
“Will you dine with me, Mr. Colwyn, and we can talk 
business afterwards.” 

264 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


265 

Colwyn complied, and when the meal was finished, Mr. 
Oakham turned to him with an eagerness which he did 
not attempt to conceal, and said : 

“Now for your news, Mr. Colwyn. But, first, where 
shall we talk?” 

“As well here as anywhere. There is nobody within 
hearing.” 

The solicitor followed his glance round the almost 
empty dining-room, and nodded acquiescence. Drawing 
his chair a little nearer the detective, he begged him to 
begin. 

“I have not very much to tell you — at present. But 
since the conviction of your client, James Ronald Pen- 
reath, I have been back to the inn where the murder was 
committed, and I have discovered fresh evidence which 
strengthens considerably my original belief that Penreath 
is an innocent man. But I have reached a stage in my 
investigations when I need your assistance in completing 
my task before I go to the authorities with my discov- 
eries. It is hardly necessary for me to tell a man of 
your experience that it is one of the most difficult things 
in the world to upset a jury’s verdict in a case of murder.” 

“What have you discovered ?” 

“This, for one thing.” Colwyn produced the pocket- 
book, and displayed the contents on the table. “This is 
the murdered man’s pocket-book, containing the missing 
notes which Penreath is supposed to have murdered him 
for. The prosecution dropped the charge of robbery, but 
the theft formed an important part of the Crown theory 
of the crime, as establishing motive.” 

“Where did you find this pocket-book?” 

“Suspended by a piece of cord, half way down the pit 
where the body was flung.” 

“It’s an interesting discovery,” replied Mr. Oakham 


266 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


thoughtfully tapping his nose with his gold-rimmed eye- 
glasses as he stared at the black pocket-book on the white 
tablecloth. “Speaking personally, it is proof of what I 
have thought all along, that a Penreath of Twelvetrees 
would not commit a robbery. Therefore, on that line 
of reasoning, one could argue that as Penreath did not 
commit the robbery, and the Crown hold that the mur- 
der was committed for the money, Penreath must be inno- 
cent. But the Crown is more likely to hold that as Pen- 
reath threw the body in the pit, he concealed the money 
there afterwards, and was hiding in the wood to recover 
it when he was arrested. The real point is, Mr. Colwyn, 
can you prove that it was not Mr. Penreath who placed 
the money in the pit?” 

“I believe I can prove, at all events, that it was not 
Penreath who threw the body into the pit.” 

“You can! Then who was it?” 

“I am not prepared to answer that question at the 
moment. During my visit to the inn I made a number 
of other discoveries besides that of the pocket-book, 
which, though slight in themselves, all fit in with my 
present theory of the murder. But before disclosing 
them, I want to complete my investigations by testing my 
theory to the uttermost. It is just possible that I may 
be wrong, though I do not think so. When I have taken 
the additional step which completes my investigations, I 
will go to the chief constable, reconstruct the crime for 
him as I see it now, and ask him to take action.” 

“Then why have you sent for me?” 

“To help me to complete my task. Part of my theory 
is that Penreath is deliberately keeping silent to shield 
some one else. The solicitor of a convicted man has 
access to him even when he is condemned to death. I 
want you to take me with you to see Penreath.” 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


267 


“For what purpose ?” 

“In order to get him to speak.” 

“It would be quite useless.” The lawyer spoke in some 
agitation. “I have seen him twice since the verdict, and 
implored him to speak if he has anything to say, but he 
declared that he had nothing to say.” 

“Nevertheless, I shall succeed where you have failed. 
Penreath is an innocent man.” 

“Then why does he not speak out, even now — more so 
now than ever?” 

“He has his reasons, and they seem sufficient to him to 
keep him silent even under the shadow of the gallows.” 

“And why do you think he will confide them to you, 
when he refuses to divulge them to his professional ad- 
viser?” 

“He will not willingly reveal them to me. My hope of 
getting his story depends entirely upon my success in 
springing a surprise upon him. That is one of my rea- 
sons for not telling you more just now. The mere fact 
that you knew would hamper my handling a difficult sit- 
uation. The slightest involuntary gesture or look might 
put him on his guard, and the opportunity would be 
lost. It is not absolutely essential that I should gain 
Penreath’s statement before going to the police, but if 
his statement coincides with my theory of the crime it 
will strengthen my case considerably when I reconstruct 
the crime for the police.” 

“Your way of doing business strikes me as strange, Mr. 
Colwyn,” said the solicitor stiffly. “As Mr. Penreath’s 
professional adviser, surely I am entitled to your fullest 
confidence. You are asking me to behave in a very un- 
professional way, and take a leap in the dark. There 
are proper ways of doing things. I will be frank with 
you. I have come to Norwich in order to urge Penreath 


268 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


for the last time to permit me to lodge an appeal against 
his conviction. That interview has been arranged to 
take place in the morning.” 

“Has he previously refused to appeal ?” 

“He has — twice.” 

“May I ask on what grounds you are seeking permis- 
sion to appeal ?” 

“If he consents, my application to the Registrar would 
be made under Section Four of the Criminal Appeal 
Act,” was the cautious reply. 

“That means you are persisting in your original de- 
fence — that Penreath is guilty, but insane. Therefore 
your application for leave to appeal against the sentence 
on the ground of insanity only enables you to appeal to 
the Court to quash the sentence on the ground that Pen- 
reath is irresponsible for his acts. Even if you succeed 
in your appeal he will be kept in gaol as a criminal luna- 
tic. In a word, you intend to persist in a defence which, 
as I told you before the trial, had very little chance of 
success. In my opinion it has no more chance of success 
before the Court of Appeal. You have not sufficient evi- 
dence for a successful defence on the grounds of insanity. 
The judge, in his summing up at the trial, was clearly of 
the opinion that Sir Henry Durwood was wrong in think- 
ing Penreath insane, and he directed the jury accordingly. 

“In my opinion the judge was right. I do not think 
Penreath is insane, or even subject to fits of impulsive 
insanity. If you ask my opinion, I think he is still suffer- 
ing from the effects of shell shock, and, like many other 
brave men who have been similarly affected, he en- 
deavoured to conceal the fact. I have come to the con- 
clusion that Penreath’s peculiar conduct at the Durring- 
ton hotel, on which Sir Henry based his theory of furor 
epilepticus, was nothing more than the combined effect 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


269 

of mental worry and an air raid shock on a previously 
shattered nervous system. Penreath is a sane man — as 
sane as you or I — and my late investigations at the scene 
of the murder have convinced me that he is an innocent 
man also. The question is, are you going to allow pro- 
fessional etiquette to stand in the way of proving his 
innocence ?” 

“But you have not shown me anything to convince me 
that he is an innocent man. Your statement comes as 
a great surprise to me, and you cannot expect that I 
should credit your bare assumption. It would be ex- 
ceedingly difficult to believe without the most convinc- 
ing proofs, which you have not brought forward. I pre- 
pared the case for the defence at the trial, and I only per- 
mitted that defence to be put forward because there was 
no other course — the evidence was so overwhelming, and 
Penreath’s obstinate silence in the face of it pointed so 
conclusively to his guilt.” 

“Nevertheless, you were wrong. The question is, are 
you going to help me undo that wrong?” 

“You have not yet proved to me that it is a wrong,” 
quibbled the solicitor. 

“Mr. Oakham, let me make this quite clear to you,” 
said the detective sternly. “I have sent for you out of 
courtesy, because, as I said before, I like to do things 
in a regular way. As you force me to speak plainly, 
there is another reason, which is that I did not wish 
to make you look small, or injure your professional repu- 
tation, by acting independently of you. It would be a 
bad advertisement for Oakham and Pendules if it got 
abroad — as it assuredly will if you persist in your atti- 
tude — that an innocent client of yours was almost sent 
to the gallows through your wrong defence at his trial. 
It is in your hands to prevent such a scandal from be- 


270 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


coming public property. But if you are going to stand 
on professional etiquette it is just as well you should 
understand that I am quite prepared to act independently 
of you. I have sufficient influence to obtain an order 
from the governor of the gaol for an interview with the 
condemned man, and I shall do so. I have discovered 
sufficient additional evidence in this case to save Pen- 
reath, and I am going to save him, with or without your 
assistance. You have had your way — it was a wrong 
way. Now I am going to have my way. I only ask 
you to trust me for a few hours. After I have seen 
Penreath you are at liberty to accompany me to the chief 
constable, to whom I shall tell everything. That is my 
last word.” 

“I will do as you ask, Mr. Colwyn,” replied the solici- 
tor, after a short pause. “Not because I am apprehen- 
sive of the consequences, but because you have convinced 
me that it would be foolish and wrong on my part to 
place any obstacles in the way of establishing my client’s 
innocence, even if it is only the smallest chance. You 
must forgive my hesitation. I am an old man, and your 
story has been such a shock that I am unable to realise 
it yet. But I will not stand on punctilio when it is a 
question of trying to save a Penreath of Twelvetrees 
from the gallows. I think I can arrange it with the 
governor of the gaol to permit you to accompany me 
when I see Penreath in the morning. That interview 
is to take place at twelve o’clock. We can go together 
from here to the gaol, if that will suit you.” 

“That will suit me excellently. And before that inter- 
view takes place I should be glad if you would tell me 
the facts of Penreath’s engagement to Miss Willoughby.” 

“I really know very little about it,” said Mr. Oakham, 
looking somewhat surprised at the question. I have 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


271 


heard, though, that Penreath met Miss Willoughby in 
London before the war, and became engaged after a very 
brief acquaintance. Ill-natured people say that the girl’s 
aunt threw her at Penreath’s head. The aunt is a Mrs. 
Brewer, a wealthy manufacturer’s widow, a pushing 
nobody ” 

"I have met her.” 

“I had forgotten. Well, you know that type of 
woman, with an itch to get into Society. Perhaps she 
thought that the marriage of her niece to a Penreath of 
Twelvetrees would open doors for her. At any rate, I 
remember there was a great deal of tittle-tattle at the 
time to the effect that she manoeuvred desperately hard 
to bring about the engagement. On the other hand, there 
can be no harm in stating now that Ronald Penreath’s 
father was almost equally keen on that match for mone- 
tary reasons. The Penreaths are far from wealthy. 
From that point of view the match seemed suitable 
enough — money on one side, and birth and breeding on 
the other. I am not sure that there was very much love 
in the case, or that the young people’s feelings were 
deeply involved on either side. There is no reason why 
I should not mention these things now, for the match 
has been broken off. It was broken off shortly after 
Penreath’s arrest.” 

“By the young lady?” 

“By the aunt, in her presence. It happened the day 
after they went to Heathfield to identify Penreath. Mrs. 
Brewer was furious about the whole business as soon as 
she ascertained that it wasn’t a mistake, as she had hoped 
at first, and that there was likely to be much unpleasant 
publicity over it. She said she would never be able to 
hold up her head in Society after the disgrace, and all 
that sort of thing. It all came about through my asking 


272 THE SHRIEKING PIT 

Miss Willoughby if she would like to see her lover while 
he was awaiting trial. The girl replied, coldly enough, 
that it would be time enough to see him after he had 
cleared himself of the dreadful charge hanging over his 
head. By the way she spoke she seemed to think her- 
self a deeply injured person, as perhaps she was. Then 
the aunt had her say, and insisted that I must tell Ben- 
reath the engagement was broken off. I asked Miss 
Willoughby if that was her wish also, and she replied that 
it was. I told Penreath the following day, but I do not 
think that it worried him very much.” 

“I do not think it would,” replied Colwyn with a smile. 


CHAPTER XXIII 


Colwyn found Mr. Oakham awaiting him in the hotel 
lobby, a little before eleven the following morning, to 
inform him that the necessary arrangements had been 
made to enable him to be present at his interview with 
Penreath. Colwyn forbore to ask him on what pretext 
he had obtained the gaol governor’s consent to his pres- 
ence, but merely signified that he was ready. Mr. Oak- 
ham replied that they had better go at once, and asked 
the porter to call a taxi. 

On arriving at the gaol they passed through the double 
entrance gates, Mr. Oakham turned to a door on the left 
just within the gates, and entered. The door opened into 
a plainly furnished office, with walls covered with prison 
regulations. Behind a counter, at a stand-up desk oppo- 
site the door, a tall burly man in a uniform of blue and 
silver was busily writing in a large ledger. Ranged in 
rows, on hooks alongside him, were bunches of immense 
keys, and as he turned to attend to Oakham and Colwyn 
another bunch of similar keys could be seen dangling at 
his side. Mr. Oakham explained the purpose of their 
visit, and produced the order for the interview. The 
functionary in blue and silver, who was the entrance 
gaoler, perused it attentively, and pushed over two forms 
for the solicitor and the detective to fill in. It was the 
last formality that the law insisted on — a grim form of 
visiting card whereon the visitor inscribes his name and 
business, which is sent to the condemned man, who must 
give his consent to the interview before it is granted. 

273 


274 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


When Mr. Oakham and Colwyn had filled in their 
forms the entrance gaoler took them and pulled a rope. 
Somewhere in a corridor a bell clanged, and a moment 
afterwards a gaoler opened a small door on the other 
side of the counter. The entrance gaoler gave him the 
forms, and he disappeared with them. There ensued a 
long period of waiting, and nearly half an hour elapsed 
before he reappeared again, accompanied by a warder. 
The blue and silver functionary silently lifted the flap 
of the counter, and beckoned Mr. Oakham and Colwyn 
to accompany the warder through the small door at the 
other end of the room. 

They went through and the bell clanged once more as 
the door closed behind them. The warder took them 
along a corridor to a door at the farther end, and ushered 
them into a room — a large apartment, not unlike a board 
room, furnished with a table and chairs ranged on each 
side. It was the governor of the gaol’s room, where the 
interview was to take place. Colwyn took one of the 
chairs at the table, Mr. Oakham took another, and silently 
they awaited the coming of the condemned man. 

Another quarter of an hour elapsed before the door 
at the other end of the room opened, and Penreath ap- 
peared between two warders. They conducted him to 
the table, and placed a chair for him. With a quick 
glance at his visitors he sat down, and the warders seated 
themselves on each side of him. The warder who had 
brought the visitors in then nodded to Mr. Oakham, as 
an indication that the interview might begin. 

In the brief glance that the young man cast at his 
visitors Colwyn observed both calmness of mind and self- 
possession. Although deep shadows under the eyes and 
the tenseness of the mucles round the mouth revealed 
sleepless nights and mental agony, Penreath’s face 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


275 


showed no trace of insanity or the guilty consciousness 
of evil deeds, but had the serene expression of a man 
who had fought his battle and won it. 

Mr. Oakham began the interview with him in a dry 
professional way, as though it were an interview between 
solicitor and client in the sanctity of a private room, with 
no hearers. And, indeed, the prison warders sitting 
there with the impassive faces of officialdom might have 
been articles of furniture, so remote were they from dis- 
playing the slightest interest in the private matters dis- 
cussed between the two. No doubt they had been pres- 
ent at many similar scenes, and custom is a deadening 
factor. Mr. Oakham’s object was to urge his client to 
consent to the lodgement of an appeal against the jury’s 
verdict, and to that end he advanced a multitude of argu- 
ments and a variety of reasons. The young man listened 
patiently, but when the solicitor had concluded he shook 
his head with a gesture of finality which indicated an 
unalterable refusal. 

“It’s no use, Oakham,” he said. “My mind is quite 
made up. I’m obliged to you for all the trouble you 
have taken in my case, but I cannot alter my decision. 
I shall go through with it — to the end.” 

“In that case it is no use my urging you further.” 
Mr. Oakham spoke stiffly, and put his eyeglasses in his 
pocket with an air of vexation. “Mr. Colwyn has some- 
thing to say to you on the subject. Perhaps you will 
listen to him. He believes he can help you.” 

“He helped to arrest me,” said Penreath, with a slight 
indifferent look at the detective. 

“But not to convict you,” said Colwyn. “I had hoped 
to help you.” 

“What do you want of me ?” Penreath’s tone was cold. 


276 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


“In the first place, I have to say that I believe you 
innocent.” 

The young man lifted his eyebrows slightly, as if to 
indicate that the other’s opinion was a matter of indiffer- 
ence to him, but he remained silent. 

“I have come to beg of you, even at this late hour, to 
break your silence, and give an account of your actions 
that night at the inn.” 

“You might have saved yourself the trouble of coming 
here. I have nothing whatever to say.” 

“That means that you continue in your refusal to 
speak. Will you answer one or two questions?” 

“No.” 

“Will you not tell me why you kept silence about what 
you saw in Mr. Glenthorpe’s room that night of the 
murder ?” 

“Man, how did you find that out?” Penreath’s calm 
disappeared in a sudden fury of voice and look. “What 
do you know?” 

“I know whom you are trying to shield,” replied the 
detective, with his eyes fixed on Penreath’s face. “You 
are wrong. She ” 

“I beg of you to be silent! Do not mention names, 
for God’s sake.” Penreath’s face had grown suddenly 
white. 

“It is in your power to ensure my silence.” 

“How?” 

“By speaking yourself.” 

“That I will never do.” 

“Then you compel me to go to the authorities and tell 
them what I have discovered. I will save you in spite 
of yourself.” 

“Do you think that I want to be saved — like that?” 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


277 


Struggling desperately for self-control Penreath turned to 
Mr. Oakham. “Why did you bring Mr. Colwyn here?” 
he asked the solicitor fiercely. “To torture me?” 

Before Mr. Oakham could reply Colwyn laughed aloud. 
A clear ringing laugh of unmistakable satisfaction. The 
laugh sounded strangely incongruous in such a place. 

“Penreath/’ he said, “you’ve told me all that I came 
here to know. You’re a splendid young Briton, but 
finesse is not your strong point. You’ve acted like a 
quixotic young idiot in this case, and got yourself into 
a nice muddle for nothing. The girl is as innocent as 
you are, and you are a pair of simpletons ! Yes. I mean 
what I say,” continued the detective, answering the 
young man’s amazed look with a reassuring smile. “Do 
you think that I would want to save you at her expense ? 
Now perhaps, when I have told you what happened that 
night, you will answer a few questions. Before you went 
to bed you sat down and wrote a letter on a leaf torn 
from your pocket-book. That letter was to Miss Will- 
oughby, breaking oflf your engagement. After writing 
it you went to bed. At that time it was raining hard. 

“You must have fallen asleep almost immediately, and 
slept for half an hour — perhaps a little more — for when 
you awoke the rain had ceased. You heard a slight noise 
in your room, and lit your candle to see what it was. 
There was a rat in the comer of the room. You got up 
to throw something at it, but as soon as you moved the 
rat darted across the room and disappeared behind the 
wardrobe at the side of the bed. You pushed back the 
wardrobe and ” 

“For God’s sake, say no more!” said Penreath. His 
face was grey, and he was staring at the detective with 
the eyes of a man who saw his heart’s secret — the secret 
for which he was prepared to die — being dragged out 


278 THE SHRIEKING PIT 

into the light of day. “How did you learn all this?” 

“That does not matter much just how. What you saw 
through the wall made you determine to leave the house 
as speedily as possible, and also caused you to destroy 
the letter you had written to Miss Willoughby. 

“You were wrong in what you did. In the first place, 
you misinterpreted what you saw through the door in 
the wall. By thinking Peggy guilty and leaving the inn 
early in the morning, you not only wronged her griev- 
ously, but brought suspicion on yourself. Peggy’s pres- 
ence in the room was quite by accident. She had gone 
to ask Mr. Glenthorpe to assist you in your trouble, by 
lending you money, and, finding the door open, she im- 
pulsively went in and found him dead — murdered. And 
at the bedside she picked up the knife — the knife you 
had used at dinner — and this.” 

Colwyn produced Penreath’s match-box from his 
pocket and laid it on the table in front of him. 

“Because of the knife and this match-box she thought 
you guilty.” 

“I ! Why I never left my room after I went into it,” 
exclaimed Penreath. “I left the match-box in the room 
where I had dined with Mr. Glenthorpe. When I awoke 
after falling asleep, and heard the noise in the room — 
just as you describe — I could not find my match-box 
when I wanted a match to light my candle, then I re- 
membered that I had left it in the sitting-room on the 
mantelpiece. I happened to find a loose match in my 
vest pocket.” 

“Peggy came to see me at my hotel, after the trial, and 
told me all she knew,” continued Colwyn. “It was well 
she did, for my second visit to the inn brought to light 
a number of facts which will enable me to establish your 
innocence.” 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


279 


“And what about the real murderer ?” asked Penreath, 
in a hesitating voice, without looking at the detective. 

“We will not go into that just now, unless you have 
anything to tell me that will throw further light on the 
events of the night.” Colwyn shot a keen, questioning 
glance at the young man. 

“I will answer any questions you wish to put to me. 
It is the least I can do after having made such a fool 
of myself. It was the shock of seeing Peggy in the room 
that robbed me of my judgment. I should have known 
her better, but you must remember that I had no idea 
she was in the house until I looked through the door in 
the wall which I had accidentally discovered, and saw 
her standing at the bedside, with the knife in her hand. 
I started to follow her home that day because I wished 
to know more about her. I lost my way in the mist. I 
met a man on the marshes who directed me to the village 
and the inn.” 

“When she heard your voice, and saw you going up- 
stairs, she waited about in the hope of seeing you before 
she went to bed, as she wished to avoid meeting you in 
the presence of her father. When she saw Mr. Glen- 
thorpe’s door open she acted on a sudden impulse, and 
went in.” 

“I have been rightly punished for my stupidity and my 
folly,” said Penreath. “I have wronged her beyond for- 
giveness.” 

“You really have not much to blame yourself for ex- 
cept your obstinate silence. That was really too 
quixotic, even if things had been as you imagined. No 
man is justified in sacrificing his life foolishly. And you 
had much to live for. You had your duty to do in life. 
Nobody knew that better than you — a soldier who had 
served his country gallantly and well. In fact, your 


28 o 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


silence has been to me one of the puzzles of this case, 
and even now it seems to me that you must have had a 
deeper motive than that of shielding the girl, because you 
could have asserted your innocence without implicating 
her.” 

“You are a very clever man, Colwyn,” said the other 
slowly. “There was another reason for my silence.” 

^What was it?” 

“I am supposed to be an epileptic. I happen to know 
a little of the course of that frightful disease, and it 
seemed to me that it was better to die — even at the hands 
of the hangman — than to live on to be a burden to my 
friends and relations, particularly when by dying I could 
shield the girl I loved. That is why I was glad when the 
plea put up for my defence failed. I preferred to die 
rather than live branded as a criminal lunatic. So, you 
see, it was not such a great sacrifice on my part, after 
all.” 

“What brought you back to the wood where you were 
arrested ?” 

“To see her. I do not know if I wanted to speak to 
her; but I wanted above all things to see her once again. 
When I left the inn that morning I had no idea that I 
might fall under suspicion for having committed the mur- 
der, but I was desperately unhappy after what I had seen 
the night before, and I didn’t care what I did or where 
I went. Instead of walking back to Durrington I struck 
across the marshes in the opposite direction. I walked 
along all day, through a desolate area of marshes, meet- 
ing nobody except an old eel fisherman in the morning, 
and, later on, a labourer going home from his work. I 
was very tired when I saw the labourer, and I asked him 
to direct me to some place where I could obtain rest and 
refreshment. He pointed to a short cut across the 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


281 


marshes, which, he said, led to a hamlet with an inn. I 
went along the path he had pointed out, but I lost my 
way in the gathering darkness. After wandering about 
the marshes for some time I saw the light of a cottage 
window some distance off, and went there to inquire my 
way. The occupant, an old peasant woman, could not 
have heard anything about the murder, for she was very 
kind to me, and gave me tea and food. Afterwards I 
set out for the inn again, and when I reached the road 
I sat down by the side of it to rest awhile. 

“While I was sitting there two men came along. They 
did not see me in the dark, and I heard them talking 
about the murder, and from what they said I knew that 
I was suspected, and that the whole country side was 
searching for me. It seemed incredible to me, and my 
first instinct was to fly. I sat there until the men's voices 
died away in the distance, then I turned off the road, and 
hurried across some fields, looking for a place to hide. 
After walking some distance I came to a large barn, 
standing by itself. The door was open, and I went in. I 
had no matches, but I felt some hay or straw on the 
floor. I lay down and pulled some over me, and fell 
fast asleep. 

“I had only intended to rest in the barn for a while, 
but I was so tired that I slept all night. When I awoke it 
was broad daylight. I did not know where I was at first, 
but it all came back to me, and I started up in a fright, 
determined to leave the barn as quickly as possible, for 
I knew it was an unsafe hiding place, and likely to be 
searched at any time. But before I could get away I 
heard loud voices approaching, and I knew I should be 
seen. I looked hastily around for some place of conceal- 
ment. It was just a big empty shed with one or two 
shelves covered with apples, and a lot of straw on the 


282 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


floor. In desperation, as the voices came nearer, I lay 
down on the floor again, and pulled straw over me till I 
was completely hidden from view. 

“The door opened, and some men looked in. Through 
the straw that covered me I could see them quite dis- 
tinctly — three fishermen and a farm labourer — though 
apparently they couldn’t see me. From their conversa- 
tion I gathered that they formed part of a search party 
looking for me, and had been told off to search the barn. 
This apparently they were not anxious to do, for they 
merely peeped in at the door, and one of them, in rather 
a relieved tone, said I wasn’t in there, wherever I was. 
One of the fishermen replied that he expected that I was 
far enough off by that time. They stood at the door for 
a few moments, talking about the murder, and then they 
went away. 

“I stayed in the barn all day, but nobody else came 
near me. When it was dark, I filled my pockets with 
apples from the shelves, and went out. I wandered about 
all night, and found myself close to a railway station at 
daybreak. I had been in that part of the country before, 
so I knew where I was — not far from Heathfield, with 
Flegne about three miles away across the fields. The 
country was nearly all open, and consequently unsafe. 
As I walked through a field I spied a little hut, almost 
hidden from view in a clump of trees. The door was 
open, and I could see it was empty. I went in, lay 
down, and fell fast asleep. 

“When I awoke it was getting dusk. I was very stiff 
and cold, so I started out walking again to get myself 
warm. It was then, I remember well, that the longing 
came over me to see Peggy again. I cursed myself for 
my weakness, knowing what I knew — or thought I knew, 
God forgive me. 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


283 

“I found myself making my way back to Flegne as 
fast as my legs would carry me — which wasn’t very fast, 
because I was weak from want of food, and so footsore 
that I could hardly stumble along. But I got over the 
three miles somehow, and reached the wood, where I 
crawled into some undergrowth, and lay there all night, 
sometimes dozing, sometimes wide awake, and sometimes 
a bit light-headed, I think. It was there you found me 
next day, and I was glad you did. I was about finished 
when I saw you looking through the bushes and only 
too glad to come out. I didn’t care what happened to 
me then. And now, I have told you all.” 

The young man, as he finished his story, buried his face 
in his hands, as though overcome by the recollection of 
the mental anguish he had been through, and what he had 
endured. 

“Not quite all, I think,” said Colwyn, after a pause. 

“I have told you everything that counts,” said Pen- 
reath, without looking up. 

“You have not,” replied the detective firmly. “You 
have not told me all you saw when you were looking 
through the door between the two rooms the night of 
the murder.” 

Penreath raised his head and regarded the other with 
startled eyes. 

“What do you mean?” he said, in a whisper. 

“I mean that you have kept back that you saw the 
body removed,” he said grimly. 

“Are you a man or a wizard ?” cried Penreath fiercely. 
“God ! how did you find that out ?” 

“By guess work, if you like,” responded the other 
coolly. “Listen to me! There has been too much con- 
cealment about this case already, so let us have no more 
of it. It was because of what you saw afterwards that 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


284 

your suspicions were doubly fastened on the girl, is that 
not so? I thought as much/’ he continued, as the other 
nodded without speaking. “How long after the girl left 
the room was it before the body was removed?” 

“Not very long,” replied Penreath. “After she went 
out of the room I sat on the bedside. I did not close the 
small door I had discovered, or replace the wardrobe. I 
was too overwhelmed. In a little while — perhaps ten 
minutes — I saw a light shine through the hole again. I 
went to it and looked through — God knows why — and I 
saw somebody walking stealthily into the room, carrying 
a candle. He went to the bedside and, with a groan, 
lifted the body on to his shoulders, and carried it out of 
the room. I crept to my door, and looked out and saw 
him descending the stairs. God in heaven, what a horror, 
what a horror! 

“I waited to see no more. I shut the door in the wall, 
pulled the wardrobe back into its place and determined 
to leave the accursed inn as soon as it was daylight. In 
my cell at nights, when I hear the footsteps of the warder 
sounding along the corridor and dying away in the dis- 
tance, it reminds me of how I stood at the door that 
night, listening to the sound of the footsteps stumbling 
down the staircase.” 

“You heard the footsteps distinctly, then?” said the 
detective. 

“Distinctly and clearly. The staircase is a stone one, 
as you know.” 

“Did you put your boots out to be cleaned before you 
went to bed?” 

“Yes.” 

“And were they there when you looked out of the 
door ?” 

“I do not remember. But I know they were there in 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


285 

the morning, dirty and covered with clay. I took them 
in, and was about to put them on, when the servant 
knocked at the door with a cup of morning tea. I an- 
swered the door with the boots in my hand. She offered 
to clean them for me, and was taking them away, but 
I called her back and said I would not wait for them. 
I was too anxious to get away from the place.” 

“Do you remember when you lost the rubber heel of 
one of them?” 

“It must have been when I was walking the previous 
day. They were only put on the day before. I hap- 
pened to mention to a bootmaker at Durrington that my 
right heel had become jarred with walking. He recom- 
mended me to try rubber heels to lessen the strain, and 
he put them on for me. I had never worn them before, 
and found them very uncomfortable when I was walking 
along the marshes. They seemed to hold and stick in 
the wet ground.” 

“And now there are one or two other points I want 
you to make clear. Why did you register in the name of 
James Ronald at the Durrington Hotel?” 

“That was merely a whim. I was disgusted with 
London and society after my return from the front. 
Those who have been through this terrible war learn to 
see most things at their true worth, and the frivolity, the 
snobbishness, and the shams of London society at such 
a time sickened and disgusted me. They tried to lionise 
me in drawing rooms and make me talk for their enter- 
tainment. They put my photograph in the picture pa- 
pers, and interviewed me, and all that kind of thing. 
What had I done! Nothing! Not a tithe of what thou- 
sands of better men are doing every day out there. So 
I went away from it all. I had no intention, when I 
went into the hotel, of not registering in my full name 


286 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


though. That came about in a peculiar way. It was 
the first registration form I had seen — it was the first 
hotel I had stayed at after nearly eighteen months at 
the front — and I put down my two Christian names, 
James Ronald, in the wrong space, the space for the sur- 
name, which is the first column. I saw my error as I 
glanced over the form, but the girl, thinking I had filled 
it up, took it away from me. It then struck me that it 
was just as well to let it go; it would prevent my being 
worried by fools.” 

“And how came it that you ran so short of money 
that you had to leave the hotel?” 

“I have practically nothing except what my father 
allows me, and which is paid quarterly through his 
bankers in London. I left London with a few pounds 
in my pocket, and thought no more about money until 
the hotel proprietor stopped me one morning and asked 
me politely to discharge my bill, as I was a stranger to 
him. It was then that I first realised the difference be- 
tween a name like Penreath of Twelvetrees and plain 
James Ronald. I was furious, and told him he should 
have the money in two days, as soon as I could com- 
municate with my London bankers. I wrote straight 
away, and asked them to send me some money. The 
money came, the morning I was turned out of the hotel ; 
I saw the letter in the rack, addressed to J. R. Penreath, 
but what good was that to me? I could not claim it 
because I was booked in the name of James Ronald. I 
knew nobody in the place to whom I could apply. I had 
some thoughts of confiding in the hotel proprietor, but 
one look at his face was sufficient to put that out of 
the question. 

“So I went in to breakfast, desperately angry at being 
treated so, and feeling more than a little ill. You know 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 287 

what happened at the breakfast table. I began to feel 
pretty seedy, and left my place to get to the fresh air, 
when that doctor — Sir Henry Durwood — jumped up and 
grabbed me. I tried to push him off, but he was too 
strong for me, and I found myself going. The next 
thing I knew was that I was lying in my bedroom, and 
hearing somebody talk. After you had left the room I 
determined to leave the hotel as quickly as possible. I 
packed a small handbag, and told the hotelkeeper on my 
way downstairs that he could keep my things until I paid 
my bill. Then I walked to Leyland Hoop, where I had 
an appointment with Peggy, as you know. I seem to 
have acted as a pretty considerable ass all round,” said 
the young man, with a rueful smile. “But I had a bad 
gruelling from shell-shock. I wouldn’t mention this, but 
it’s really affected my head, you know, and I don’t think 
I’m always quite such a fool as this story makes me 
appear to be.” 

“And your nerves were a bit rattled by the Zeppelin 
raid at Durrington, were they not ?” said Colwyn sympa- 
thetically. 

“You seem to know everything,” said the young man, 
flushing. “I am ashamed to say that they were.” 

“You have no cause to be ashamed,” replied Colwyn 
gently. “The bravest men suffer that way after shell- 
shock.” 

“It’s not a thing a man likes to talk about,” said Pen- 
reath, after a pause. “But if you have had experience 
of this kind of thing, will you tell me if you have ever 
seen a man completely recover — from shell-shock, I 
mean ?” 

“I should say you will be quite yourself again shortly. 
There cannot be very much the matter with your nerves 
to have stood the experience of the last few weeks. 


288 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


After we get you out of here, and you have had a good 
rest, you will be yourself again.” 

“And what about this other thing — this furor epilepti- 
cus, whatever it is ?” asked Penreath, anxiously. 

“As you didn’t murder anybody, you haven’t had the 
epileptic fury,” replied Colwyn, laughing. 

“But Sir Henry Durwood said at the trial that I was 
an epileptic,” persisted the other. 

“He was wrong about the furor epilepticus, so it is 
just as likely that he was wrong about the epilepsy. His 
theory was that you were going to attack somebody at 
the breakfast table of the hotel, and you have just told 
us that you had no intention of attacking anybody — that 
your only idea was to get out of the room. You are 
neither an epileptic nor insane, in my opinion, but at that 
time you were suffering from the after effects of shell- 
shock. Take my advice, and forget all about the trial 
and what you heard there, or, if you must think of it, 
remember the excellent certificate of sanity and clear- 
headedness which the doctors for the Crown gave you! 
When you get free I’ll take you to half a dozen special- 
ists who’ll probably confirm the Crown point of view.” 

Penreath laughed for the first time. 

“You’ve made me feel like a new man,” he said. 
“How can I thank you for all you have done ?” 

“The only way you can show your gratitude is by in- 
structing Mr. Oakham to lodge an appeal for you — at 
once. Have you the necessary forms with you, Mr. 
Oakham?” 

“I have,” said the solicitor, finding voice after a long 
silence. 


CHAPTER XXIV 


Mr. Oakham did not discuss what had taken place in 
the prison as he and Colwyn drove to the office of the 
chief constable after the interview. He sat silent in his 
comer of the taxi, his hands clasped before him, and 
gazing straight in front of him with the look of a man 
who sees nothing. From time to time his lips moved 
after the fashion of the old, when immersed in thought, 
and once he audibly murmured, “The poor lad ; the poor 
lad.” Colwyn forbore to speak to him. He realised 
that he had had a shock, and was best left to himself. 

By the time the taxi reached the office of the chief 
constable Mr. Oakham showed symptoms of regaining 
his self-possession. He felt for his eyeglasses, polished 
them, placed them on his nose and glanced at his watch. 
It was in something like his usual tones that he asked 
Colwyn, as they alighted from the cab, whether he had 
an appointment with the chief constable. 

“I wired to you both at the same time,” replied the 
detective. “I asked him to keep this afternoon free,” 
he explained with a smile. 

A police constable in the outer office took in their 
names. He speedily returned with the message that the 
chief constable would be glad to see them, and would 
they step this way, please. Following in his wake, they 
were conducted along a passage and into a large com- 
fortably furnished room, where Mr. Cromering was writ- 
ing at a small table placed near a large fire. He looked 
up as the visitors entered, put down his pen, and came 
forward to greet them. 

289 


290 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


“I am pleased to see you again, Mr. Colwyn, and you 
also, Mr. Oakham. Please draw your chairs near the 
fire, gentlemen — there’s a decided nip in the air. I got 
your telegram, Mr. Colwyn, and I am at your disposal, 
with plenty of time. Your telegram rather surprised me. 
What has happened in the Glenthorpe case?” 

“Fresh facts have come to light — facts that tend to 
prove the innocence of Penreath, who was accused and 
convicted for the murder.” 

“Dear me! This is a very grave statement. What 
proofs have you?” 

“Sufficient to warrant further steps in the case. It 
is a long story, but I think when you have heard it you 
will feel justified in taking prompt action.” 

Before Mr. Cromering could reply, the police con- 
stable who had shown in Colwyn and Mr. Oakham en- 
tered the room and said that Superintendent Galloway, 
from Durrington, was outside. 

“Bring him in, Johnson,” said Mr. Cromering. He 
turned to Colwyn and added: “When I received your 
telegram I telephoned to Galloway and asked him to be 
here this afternoon. As he worked up the case against 
Penreath, I thought it better that he should be present 
and hear what you have to say. You have no objec- 
tion, I suppose?” 

“On the contrary, I shall be very glad for Galloway 
to hear what I have to say.” 

The police constable returned, ushering in Superinten- 
dent Galloway, who looked rather surprised when he saw 
his superior officer’s visitors. He nodded briefly to Col- 
wyn, and looked inquiringly at the chief constable. 

“Mr. Colwyn has discovered some fresh facts in the 
Glenthorpe murder, Galloway,” explained Mr. Cromer- 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


291 

mg. “I sent for you in order that you might hear what 
they are.” 

“What sort of facts?” asked Galloway, with a quick 
glance at the detective. 

“That is what Mr. Colwyn proposes to explain to us.” 

“I shall have to go back to the beginning of our in- 
vestigations to do so — to the day when we motored from 
Durrington to Flegne,” said the detective. “We went 
there with the strong presumption in our minds that Pen- 
reath was the criminal, because of suspicious facts pre- 
viously known about him. He was short of money, he 
had concealed his right name when registering at the 
hotel, and his behaviour at the breakfast table the morn- 
ing of his departure suggested an unbalanced tempera- 
ment. It is a legal axiom that men’s minds are influ- 
enced by facts previously known or believed, and we set 
out to investigate this case under the strong presumption 
that Penreath, and none other, was the murderer. 

“The evidence we found during our visit to the inn 
fitted in with this theory, and inclined the police to shut 
out the possibility of any alternative theory because of 
the number of concurrent points which fitted in with the 
presumption that Penreath was the murderer. There 
was, first, the fact that the murderer had entered through 
the window. Penreath had been put to sleep in the 
room next the murdered man, in an unoccupied part of 
the inn, and could easily have got from one window to 
the other without being seen or heard. Next was the 
fact that the murder had been committed with a knife 
with a round end. Penreath had used such a knife when 
dining with Mr. Glenthorpe, and that knife was after- 
wards missing. Next, we have him hurriedly departing 
from the inn soon after daybreak, refusing to wait till 


292 THE SHRIEKING PIT 

his boots were cleaned, and paying his bill with a Treas- 
ury note. 

“Then came the discovery of the footprints to the pit 
where the body had been thrown, and those footprints 
were incontestably made by Penreath’s boots. The 
stolen notes suggested a strong motive in the case of a 
man badly in need of money, and the payment of his 
bill with a Treasury note of the first issue suggested — 
though not very strongly — that he had given the servant 
one of the stolen notes. These were the main points in 
the circumstantial evidence against Penreath. The 
stories of the landlord of the inn, the deaf waiter, and 
the servant supported that theory in varying degrees, and 
afforded an additional ground for the credibility of the 
belief that Penreath was the murderer. The final and 
most convincing proof — Penreath’s silence under the ac- 
cusation — does not come into the narrative of events at 
this point, because he had not been arrested. 

“It was when we visited the murdered man’s bedroom 
that the first doubts came to my mind as to the conclu- 
siveness of the circumstantial evidence against Penreath. 
The theory was that Penreath, after murdering Mr. 
Glenthorpe, put the body on his shoulder, and carried it 
downstairs and up the rise to the pit. The murderer 
entered through the window — the bits of red mud ad- 
hering to the carpet prove that conclusively enough — 
but if Penreath was the murderer where had he got the 
umbrella with which he shielded himself from the storm? 
The fact that the murderer carried an umbrella is 
proved by the discovery of a small patch of umbrella silk 
which had got caught on a nail by the window. Again, 
why should a man, getting from one window to another, 
bother about using an umbrella for a journey of a few 
feet only ? He would know that he could not use it when 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


293 


carrying the body to the pit, for that task would require 
both his hands. And what had Penreath done with the 
umbrella afterwards? 

“The clue of the umbrella silk, and the pool of water 
near the window where the murderer placed the um- 
brella after getting into the room, definitely fixed the time 
of the murder between eleven and 11.30 p. m., because the 
violent rainstorm on that night ceased at the latter hour. 
If Penreath was the murderer, he waited until the 
storm ceased before removing the body. There were no 
footprints outside the window where the murderer got 
in, because they were obliterated by the rain. On the 
other hand, the footsteps to the pit where the body was 
thrown were clear and distinct, proving conclusively that 
no rain fell after the murderer left the house with his 
burden. It seemed to me unlikely that a man after com- 
mitting a murder would coolly sit down beside his victim 
and wait for the rain to cease before disposing of the 
body. His natural instinct would be to hide the evi- 
dence of his crime as quickly as possible. 

“These points, however, were of secondary importance, 
merely tending to shake slightly what lawyers term the 
probability of the case against Penreath. But a point of 
more importance was my discovery that the candle-grease 
dropped on the carpet was of two different kinds — wax 
and tallow — suggesting that two different persons were 
in the room on the night of the murder. Mr. Glenthorpe 
did not use a candle, but a reading lamp. Neither did 
Mr. Glenthorpe use the gas globe in the middle of the 
room. Yet that gas tap was turned on slightly when 
we examined the room, and the globe and the incandes- 
cent burner smashed. Who turned on the tap, and who 
smashed the globe ? Penreath is not tall enough to have 
struck it with his head. Superintendent Galloway’s 


294 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


theory was that it might have been done by the murderer 
when mounting the body of his victim over his shoulder. 

“An ideal case of circumstantial evidence may be 
weakened, but not destroyed, by the destruction of one 
or more of the collateral facts which go to make it up. 
There are two kinds of circumstantial evidence. In one 
kind presumption of guilt depends on a series of links 
forming a chain. In the other, the circumstances are 
woven together like the strands of a rope. That is the 
ideal case of circumstantial evidence, because the rope 
still holds when some of the strands are severed. The 
case against Penreath struck me as resembling a chain, 
which is no stronger than its weakest link. The strong- 
est link in the chain of circumstances against Penreath 
was the footprints leading to the pit. They had un- 
doubtedly been made by his boots, but circumstances can 
lie as well as witnesses, and in both cases the most plaus- 
ible sometimes prove the greatest liars. Take away the 
clue of the footprints, and the case against Penreath was 
snapped in the most vital link. The remaining circum- 
stances in the case against him, though suspicious 
enough, were open to an alternative explanation. The 
footprints were the damning fact — the link on which 
the remaining links of the chain were hung. 

“But the elimination of the clue of the footprints did 
not make the crime any easier of solution. From the 
moment I set foot in the room it struck me as a deep 
and baffling mystery, looking at it from the point of 
view of the police theory or from any other hypothesis. 
If Penreath had indeed committed the murder, who was 
the second visitor to the room? And if Penreath had 
not committed the murder, who had? 

“That night, in my room, I sought to construct two 
alternative theories of the murder. In the first place, I 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


295 


examined the case thoroughly from the police point of 
view, with Penreath as the murderer. In view of what 
has come to light since the trial, there is no need to take 
up time with giving you my reasons for doubting whether 
Penreath had committed the crime. I explained those 
reasons to Superintendent Galloway at the time, pointing 
out, as he will doubtless remember, that the police theory 
struck me as illogical in some aspects, and far from con- 
vincing as a whole. There were too many elements of 
uncertainty in it, too much guess-work, too much jump- 
ing at conclusions. Take one point alone, on which I 
laid stress at the time. The police theory originally 
started from the point of Penreath’s peculiar behaviour 
at the Durrington hotel, which, from their point of view, 
suggested homicidal mania. To my mind, there was no 
evidence to prove this, although that theory was actually 
put forth by the defence at Penreath’s trial. I wit- 
nessed the scene at the breakfast table, and, in my opin- 
ion, Sir Henry Durwood acted hastily and wrongly in 
rushing forward and seizing Penreath. There was noth- 
ing in his behaviour that warranted it. He was a little 
excited, and nothing more, and from what I have heard 
since he had reason to be excited. Neither at the break- 
fast table nor in his room subsequently did his actions 
strike me as the actions of a man of insane, neurotic, or 
violent temperament. He was simply suffering from 
nerves. It is important to remember, in recalling the 
events which led up to this case, that Penreath was in- 
valided out of the Army suffering from shell-shock, and 
that two nights before the scene at the hotel there was 
an air raid at Durrington. Shell-shock victims are al- 
ways prejudicially affected by air raids. 

“Even if the police theory had been correct on this 
point, it seemed inconceivable to me that a man affected 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


296 

with homicidal tendencies would have displayed such 
cold-blooded caution and cunning in carrying out a mur- 
der for gain, as the murderer at the Golden Anchor did. 
The Crown dropped this point at the trial. I merely 
mention it now in support of my contention that the case 
of circumstantial evidence against Penreath was by no 
means a strong one, because it originally depended, in 
part, on inferred facts which the premises did not war- 
rant. 

“Next, the discoveries made in the room where the 
murder was committed, and certain other indications 
found outside, did not fit in with the police case against 
Penreath. Superintendent Galloway’s reconstruction of 
the crime, after he had seen the body and examined the 
inn premises, did not account for the existence of all the 
facts. There were circumstances and clues which were 
not consistent with the police theory of the murder. 
The probability of the inference that Penreath was the 
murderer was not increased by the discoveries we made. 
I am aware that absolute proof is not essential to convic- 
tion in a case of circumstantial evidence, but, on the 
other hand, to ignore facts which do not accord with a 
theory is to go to the other extreme, for by so doing you 
are in danger of excluding the possibility of any alter- 
native theory. 

“On the other hand, when I sought to account for the 
crime by any other hypothesis I found myself puzzled at 
every turn. The presence of two persons in the room 
was the baffling factor. The murderer had entered 
through the window in the storm, lighted the tallow can- 
dle which he brought with him, walked straight to the 
bed and committed the murder. Then he had waited 
till the rain ceased before carrying the body downstairs 
to the pit. But what about the second person — the per- 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


297 


son who had carried the wax candle and dropped spots 
of grease underneath the broken gas globe? Had he 
come in at a different time, and why? Why Had he 
sought to light the gas, when he carried a candle ? Why 
had he — as I subsequently ascertained — left the room 
and gone downstairs to turn on the gas at the meter? 

“Eliminating Penreath for the time being, I tried next 
to fit in the clues I had discovered with two alternative 
theories. Had the murder been committed from outside 
by a villager, or by somebody in the inn? There were 
possibilities about the former theory which I pointed out 
to Superintendent Galloway, who subsequently investi- 
gated them, and declared that there was no ground for 
the theory that the murder had been committed from out- 
side. The theory that the murder had been committed by 
somebody inside the inn turned my attention to the in- 
mates of the inn. Excluding Penreath for the time being, 
there were five inmates inside the walls the night the 
murder was committed — the innkeeper, his daughter, his 
mother, the waiter, and Ann, the servant. The girl could 
hardly have committed the murder, and could certainly 
not have carried away the body. The old mad woman 
might have committed the murder if she could have got 
out of her room, but she could not have carried the body 
to the pit — neither could the servant. By this process 
of elimination there remained the landlord and the deaf 
waiter. 

“For a reason which it is not necessary to explain 
now, my thoughts turned to the waiter when I first saw 
the body of the murdered man. The possibility that he 
was the murderer was strengthened by the slight clue of 
the line in the clay which I found underneath the mur- 
dered man’s bedroom window. That window is about 
eight feet from the ground outside, and the waiter, who 


298 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


is short and stout, could not have climbed through the 
window without something to stand on. But the waiter 
could not possibly have carried the body to the pit. His 
right arm is malformed, and only a very strong man, 
with two strong arms, could have performed that feat. 

“There remained the innkeeper. He was the only per- 
son on the inn premises that night, except Penreath, who 
could have carried the corpse downstairs and thrown it 
into the pit. Although thin, I should say he is a man 
of great physical strength. It is astonishing to think, 
in looking back over all the circumstances of this extra- 
ordinary case, that some suspicion was not diverted to 
him in the first instance. He was very hard-pressed for 
money, and he knew for days beforehand that Mr. Glen- 
thorpe was going to draw £300 from the bank — a cir- 
cumstance that Penreath could not possibly have known 
when he sought chance shelter at the inn that night. He 
was the only person in the place tall enough to have 
smashed the gas globe and incandescent burner in Mr. 
Glenthorpe’s room by striking his head against it. He 
knew the run of the place and the way to the pit inti- 
mately — far better than a stranger like Penreath could. 
I was struck with that fact when we were examining 
the footprints. The undeviating course from the inn to 
the mouth of the pit suggested an intimate acquaintance 
with the way. The man who carried the body to the 
pit in the darkness knew every inch of the ground. 

“It is easy to be wise after the event, but my thoughts 
and suspicions were centring more and more around the 
innkeeper when Penreath was arrested. His attitude 
altered the whole aspect of the case. His hesitating 
answers to me in the wood, his fatalistic acceptance of 
the charge against him, seemed to me equivalent to a con- 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


299 

fession of guilt, so I abandoned my investigations and 
returned to Durrington. 

“I was wrong. It was a mistake for which I find it 
difficult to forgive myself. Penreath’s hesitation, his 
silence — what were they in the balance of probabilities 
in such a strange deep crime as this murder? In view 
of the discoveries I had already made — discoveries which 
pointed to a most baffling mystery — I should not have 
allowed myself to be swerved from my course by Pen- 
reath’s silence in the face of accusation, inexplicable 
though it appeared at the time. You know what hap- 
pened subsequently. Penreath, persisting in his silence, 
was tried, convicted, and sentenced to death — because of 
that silence, which compelled the defence to rely on a 
defence of insanity which they could not sustain. 

"I went back to the inn a second time, not of my own 
volition, but because of a story told me by the innkeeper’s 
daughter, Peggy, at Durrington four days ago. The 
night before the inquest Peggy paid a visit to the room 
in which the murdered man lay. I did not see her go 
in, but I saw her come out. She went downstairs and 
hurried across the marshes and threw something into 
the sea from the top of the breakwater. The following 
day, after Penreath’s arrest, I questioned her. She gave 
me an explanation which was hardly plausible, but his 
silence coming after the accumulation of circumstances 
against him, had caused me to look at the case from a 
different angle, and I did not cross-examine her. The 
object of her visit to me after the trial was to admit that 
she had not told me the truth previously. Her amended 
story was obviously the true one. She and Penreath had 
met by chance on the seashore near Leyland Hoop two 
or three weeks before, and had met secretly afterward. 
The subsequent actions of these two foolish young people 


300 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


prove, convincingly enough, that they had fallen passion- 
ately in love with each other. Peggy, however, had 
never told Penreath her name or where she lived — be- 
cause she knew her position was different from his, she 
says — and she could not understand how he came to be 
at the inn that night. Naturally, she was very much per- 
turbed at his unexpected appearance. She waited for an 
opportunity to speak to him after hearing his voice, but 
was compelled to attend on her mad grandmother until 
it was very late. 

‘‘Before going to bed she went down the passage to 
see if by any chance he had not retired. There was a 
light in Mr. Glenthorpe’s room, and, acting on a sudden 
girlish impulse, she ran along the passage to Mr. Glen- 
thorpe’s door, intending to confide her troubles in one 
who had always been very good and kind to her. The 
door was partly open, and as she got no reply to her 
knock, she entered. Mr. Glenthorpe was lying on his 
bed, murdered, and on the floor — a.t the side of the bed — 
she found the knife and this silver and enamel match-box. 
She hid the knife behind a picture on the wall. She did 
a very plucky thing the following night by going into 
the dead man’s room and removing the knife in order to 
prevent the police finding it, for by that time she was 
aware that the knife formed an important piece of evi- 
dence in the case against her lover. It was the knife she 
threw into the sea, but she kept the match-box, which 
she recognised as Penreath’s. When she came to me 
she did not intend to tell me anything about the match- 
box if she could help it. She was frank enough up to a 
point, but beyond that point she did not want to go. 

“After Penreath’s conviction she began, womanlike, to 
wonder if she had not been too hasty in assuming his 
guilt, and as the time slipped by and brought the day of 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 301 

his doom nearer she grew desperate, and as a last re- 
source she came to me. It was a good thing she did so. 
For her story, though apparently making the case against 
Penreath blacker still, incidentally brought to light a clue 
which threw a new light on the case and decided me to 
return to Flegne. That clue is contained in the match- 
box.” 


CHAPTER XXV 


Colwyn opened the silver and enamel box, and 
emptied the matches on the table. 

“I showed this match-box to Charles on my return to 
the inn, and he told me that Penreath used it in the up- 
stairs sitting-room the night he dined there with Mr. 
Glenthorpe. Therefore, it is a reasonable deduction to 
assume that he had no other matches in his possession the 
night of the murder. 

“This fact is highly significant, because the matches in 
Penreath’s silver box are, as you see, blueheaded wax 
matches, whereas the matches struck in Mr. Glenthorpe’s 
room on the night of the murder were of an entirely dif- 
ferent description — wooden matches with pink heads, of 
British manufacture — so-called war matches, with cork 
pine sticks. The sticks of these matches break rather 
easily unless they are held near the head. Two broken 
fragments of this description of match, with unlighted 
heads, were found in Mr. Glenthorpe’s room the morning 
after the murder. Superintendent Galloway picked up 
one by the foot of the bed, and I picked up the other 
under the broken gas-globe. The recovery of Penreath’s 
match-box in the murdered man’s room suggested several 
things. In the first place, if he had no other matches in 
his possession except those in his silver and enamel box, 
he was neither the murderer nor the second person who 
visited the room that night. But if my deduction about 
the matches was correct, how was it that his match-box 
was found in the murdered man’s room ? The inference 


302 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


303 


is that Penreath left his match-box in the dining room 
after lighting his candle before going to bed, and the 
murderer found it and took it into Mr. Glenthorpe’s bed- 
room to point suspicion towards Penreath. 

“This fact opened up a new possibility about the crime 
— the possibility that Penreath was the victim of a con- 
spiracy. When we were examining the footprints which 
led to the pit, the possibility of somebody else having 
worn Penreath’s boots occurred to me, because I have 
seen that trick worked before, but the servant’s story 
suggested that Penreath did not put his boots outside his 
door to be cleaned, but came to the door with them in 
his hand in the morning. But Penreath told me this 
morning that he put out his boots overnight to be cleaned, 
but had taken them back into his room before Ann 
brought up his tea. The murderer, therefore, had ample 
opportunity to use them for his purpose of carrying the 
body to the pit. Afterwards, he put them back outside 
Penreath’s door. 

“But Peggy’s belated admissions did more than sug- 
gest that Penreath was the victim of a sinister plot — 
they narrowed down the range of persons by whom it 
could have been contrived. The plotter was not only an 
inmate of the inn, but somebody who had seen the match 
box and knew that it belonged to Penreath. 

“I returned to Flegne to resume the investigations I 
had broken off nearly three weeks before, and from that 
point my discoveries were very rapid, all tending to throw 
suspicion on Benson. The first indication was the out- 
come of a remark of mine about his height, and the 
broken gas light in Mr. Glenthorpe’s bedroom. It was 
purely a chance shot, but it threw him into a pitiable 
state of excitement. I let him think, however, that it 
was nothing more than a chance remark. That night 


304 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


I was put to sleep in Penreath’ s room, and there I made 
two discoveries. The first was the existence of a small 
door, behind the wardrobe, opening on a corresponding 
door on the other side, which in its turn opens into Mr. 
Glenthorpe’s room. Thus it would be possible for a per- 
son in the room Penreath occupied, discovering these 
doors as I did, to see into the next bedroom — under cer- 
tain conditions. My second discovery was the outcome 
of my first discovery — I picked up underneath the ward- 
robe a fragment of an appealing letter which Penreath 
had commenced to write to his fiancee, and had subse- 
quently torn up. It was a long time before I grasped the 
full significance of these two discoveries. Why should a 
man, after writing a letter of appeal to his fiancee, decide 
not to send it and destroy it ? The most probable reason 
was that something had happened to cause him to change 
his mind. What could have happened to change the 
conditions so quickly? The hidden doors in the wall, 
which looked into the next room, supplied an answer to 
the question. Penreath had looked through, and seen — 
what? My first thought was that he had seen the mur- 
der comniitted, but that theory did not account for the 
destruction of the letter, and his silence when arrested, 
unless, indeed, the girl had committed the murder. The 
girl — Peggy ! It came to me like a flash, the solution of 
the strangest aspect of this puzzling case — the reason 
why Penreath maintained his dogged silence under an 
accusation of murder. 

“It came to me, the clue for which I had been groping, 
with the recollection of a phrase in the girl’s story to 
me — her second story — in which she not only told me of 
her efforts to shield Penreath, but revealed frankly to me 
her relations with Penreath, innocent enough, but com- 
menced in chance fashion, and continued by clandestine 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


305 


meetings in lonely spots. I remembered when she told 
me about it all that I was impressed by Penreath’s abso- 
lute straightforwardness in his dealings with this girl. 
He was open and sincere with her throughout, gave her 
his real name, and told her much about himself : his 
family, his prospects, and even his financial embarrass- 
ment. He went further than that : he told her that he wa9 
engaged to be married, and that if he could get free he 
would marry her. A young man who talks in this strain 
is very much in love. The artless story of Peggy re- 
vealed that Penreath was as much in love with the girl as 
she was with him. Tf he could get free!’ That was 
the phrase that gave me the key to the mystery. He had 
set out to get free by writing to Miss Willoughby, break- 
ing off his engagement. Later he had torn up the letter 
because through the door in the wall he had seen Peggy 
standing by the bedside of the murdered man, and had 
come to the conclusion that she had murdered him. 

'Tf you think it a little strange that Penreath should 
have jumped to this conclusion about the woman he 
loved, you must remember the circumstances were un- 
usual. Peggy had surrounded herself with mystery ; she 
refused to tell her lover where she lived, she would not 
even tell him her name. When he looked into the room 
he did not even know she was in the house, because she 
had kept out of his way during the previous evening, 
waiting for an opportunity to see him alone. Conse- 
quently he experienced a great shock at the sight of her, 
and the mystery with which she had always veiled her 
identity and movements recurred to him with a terrible 
and sinister significance as he saw her again under such 
damning conditions, standing by the bedside of the dead 
man with a knife in her hand. 

“Penreath’s subsequent actions — his destruction of the 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


306 

letter he had written to Miss Willoughby, his hurried 
departure from the inn, and his silence in the face of 
accusation — are all explained by the fact that he saw 
the girl Peggy in the next room, and believed that she 
had committed this terrible crime. 

“I now come to the clues which point directly to Ben- 
son’s complicity in the murder. I have already told you 
of his alarm at my chance remark about his height and 
the smashed gas globe. You also know that he was in 
need of money. The next point is rather a curious one. 
When Benson was telling us his story the day after the 
murder I observed that he kept smoothing his long hair 
down on his forehead. There was something in the 
action that suggested more than a mannerism. The night 
after I discovered the door in the wall, I left it open in 
order to watch the next room. During the night Ben- 
son entered and searched the dead man’s chamber. I do 
not know what he was looking for — he did not find it, 
whatever it was — but during the search he grew hot, 
and threw back his hair from his forehead, revealing a 
freshly healed scar on his temple. The reason he had 
worn his hair low was explained: he wanted to hide 
from us the fact that it was he who had smashed the 
gas-globe in Mr. Glenthorpe’s room, and had cut his 
head by the accident. 

“But his visit to the dead man’s room revealed more 
than the scar on his forehead. How did Benson get into 
the room? The room had been kept locked. since the 
murder. That night I had taken the key from a hook 
on the kitchen dresser in order to examine the room when 
the inmates of the place had retired. Benson, therefore, 
had let himself in with another key. This was our first 
knowledge of another key. Hitherto we had believed 
that the only key was the one found in the outside of the 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


307 


door the morning after the murder. The police theory 
is partly based on that supposition. Benson’s possession 
of a second key, and his silence concerning it, point 
strongly to his complicity in the crime. He knew that 
Mr. Glenthorpe was accustomed to lock his door and 
carry the key about with him, so he obtained another 
key in order to have access to the room whenever he 
desired. There would have been nothing in this if he 
had told his household about it. A second key would 
have been useful to the servant when she wanted to 
arrange Mr. Glenthorpe’s room. But Benson kept the 
existence of the second key a close secret. He said 
nothing about it when we questioned him concerning the 
key in the door. An innocent man would have im- 
mediately informed us that there was a second key to 
the room. Benson kept silence because he had something 
to hide. 

“I now come to the events of the next morning. My 
investigation of the rise and the pit during the afternoon 
had led to a discovery which subsequently suggested to 
my mind that the missing money had been hidden in the 
pit. I determined to try and descend it. I arose before 
daybreak, as I did not wish any of the inmates of the 
inn to see me. Before going to the pit I got out of the 
window and into the window of the next room, as Pen- 
reath is supposed to have done. That experiment brought 
to light another small point in Penreath’s favour. The 
drop from the first window is an awkward one — more 
than eight feet — and my heels made a deep indentation in 
the soft red clay underneath the window. If Penreath had 
dropped from the window, even in his stocking feet, the 
marks of his heels ought to have been visible. There 
was not enough rain after the murder was committed 
to obliterate them entirely. There were no such marks 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


308 

under his window when we examined the ground the 
morning after the murder. 

"I next proceeded to the rise and lowered myself down 
the pit by the creepers inside. About ten feet down the 
vegetable growth ceased, and the further descent was im- 
possible without ropes. But at the limit of the distance 
to which a man can climb down unaided, I saw a peg 
sticking into the side of the pit, with a fishing line sus- 
pended from it. I drew up the line, and found attached 
to it the murdered man’s pocket-book containing the 
£300 he had drawn out of the bank at Heathfield the 
day he was murdered. 

“Let me now try to reconstruct the crime in the light 
of the fresh information we have gained. Benson was 
in desperate straits for money, and he knew that Mr. 
Glenthorpe had drawn £300 from the bank that morning, 
all in small notes, which could not be traced. The fact 
that he obtained a second key to the room suggests that 
he had been meditating the act for some time past. It 
will be found, I think, when all the facts are brought 
to light, that he obtained the second key when he learnt 
that Mr. Glenthorpe intended to take a large sum of 
money out of the bank. Penreath’s chance arrival at the 
inn on the day that the money was drawn out, probably 
set him thinking of the possibility of murdering and rob- 
bing Mr. Glenthorpe in circumstances that would divert 
suspicion to the stranger. Penreath unconsciously helped 
him by leaving his match-box in the room where he had 
dined with Mr. Glenthorpe. Benson found the match- 
box on looking into the room to see that everything was 
all right when his guests had retired, and determined to 
commit the murder that night, and leave it by the mur- 
dered man’s bedside, as a clue to direct attention to 
Penreath. His next idea, to murder Mr. Glenthorpe 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


309 


with the knife which Penreath had used at dinner, prob- 
ably occurred to him as he considered the possibilities of 
the match-box. 

“It is difficult to decide why Benson chose to enter 
the room from the window instead of by the door when 
he had a second key of the room. He may have at- 
tempted to open the door with the key, and found that 
Mr. Glenthorpe had locked the door and left the key on 
the inside. Or he may have thought that as Penreath 
was sleeping in the next room, he ran too great a risk of 
discovery by entering from the door, and so decided to 
enter by the window. We must presume that Benson 
subsequently found Mr. Glenthorpe’s key, either inside 
the door or under his pillow, and kept it. He entered 
the window, stabbed Mr. Glenthorpe, and placed the 
match-box and the knife at the side of the bed. His 
next act would be to search for the money. Finding 
it difficult to search by the light of the tallow candle, he 
decided to go downstairs and turn on the gas. 

“During his absence Peggy entered the room, saw the 
dead body, and picked up the knife and the match-box. 
Then she picked up the candlestick by the bed, and fled 
in terror. Benson, after turning on the gas at the meter, 
returned to find the room in darkness. Thinking that 
the wind had blown out the candle, he walked to the gas 
with the intention of lighting it. In doing so he knocked 
his head against the globe, cutting his forehead, and 
smashing the incandescent burner. 

“Benson when he found that the candlestick had dis- 
appeared must, in his fright, have rushed downstairs for 
another. He could not light the gas, because he had 
smashed the burner. In no other way can I account for 
the second lot of candle-grease that I found in the room 
underneath the gas-light, which made me believe at first 


3io 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


that the room had been visited by two persons on the 
night of the murder. There were two persons, Benson 
and his daughter, but Peggy did not bring a candlestick 
into the room. It looks to me as though Benson, on 
returning with the second candle, attempted to light the 
gas with it and failed. That action would account for 
the gas tap being turned on, and the spilt grease directly 
underneath. He then searched the room till he found 
the pocket-book containing the money. 

“The subsequent removal of the body to the pit strikes 
me as an afterthought. The complete plan was too 
diabolically ingenious and complete to have formed in 
the murderer’s mind at the outset. The man who put 
the match-box and knife by the bedside of the murdered 
man in order to divert suspicion to Penreath had no 
thought, at that stage, of removing the body. That idea 
came afterwards, probably when he went upstairs the 
second time with the lighted candle, and saw Penreath’s 
boots outside the door. I cannot help thinking that the 
clue of the footprints, which was such a damning point 
in the case against Penreath, was quite an accidental one 
so far as the murderer was concerned. The thought 
that the boots would leave footprints which would sub- 
sequently be identified as Penreath’s was altogether too 
subtle to have occurred to a man like Benson. That is 
the touch of a master criminal — of a much higher order 
of criminal brain than Benson’s. 

“It is my belief that he originally intended to leave the 
murdered man in his room, thinking that the match-box 
and knife would point suspicion to Penreath. But 
after killing Mr. Glenthorpe he was overcome with the 
fear that his guilt would be discovered, in spite of his 
precautions to throw suspicions on another man, and he 
decided to throw the body into the pit in the hope that 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


3ii 

the crime would never be discovered. The fact that he 
had entered the room in his stocking feet supports this 
theory, because he would be well aware that he would 
not be able to carry the body over several hundred yards 
of rough ground in his bare feet. He took Penreath’s 
boots, which were close at hand, in preference to the 
danger and delay which he would have incurred in going 
to his own room, some distance away, for his own boots. 
Having put on the boots, he took the body on his shoul- 
ders and conveyed it to the pit. 

“There are two or three points in this case which I 
am unable to clear up to my complete satisfaction. Why 
did Benson leave the key in the outside of the door? 
Was it merely one of those mistakes — those oversights 
— which all murderers are liable to commit, or did he do 
it deliberately, in the hope of conveying the impression 
that Mr. Glenthorpe had gone out and left the key in 
the outside of the door. In the next place, I cannot 
account for the mark of the box underneath the window. 
There is a third point — the direction of the wound in 
the murdered man’s body, which gave me some ideas at 
the time that I am now compelled to dismiss as erroneous. 
But these are points that I hope will be cleared up by 
Benson’s arrest, and confession, for I am convinced, by 
my observation of the man, that he will confess. 

“There are one or two more points. Benson is an 
ardent fisherman, who spends all his spare time fishing 
on the marshes. The stolen pocket-book was suspended 
in the pit by a piece of fishing line. But I attach more 
importance to the second point, which is that since the 
murder has been committed the nightly conversation at 
the inn tap-room has centred around a local ghost, known 
as the White Lady of the Shrieking Pit, who is sup- 
posed from time immemorial to have haunted the 


3 12 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


pit where the body was thrown, and to bring death 
to anybody who encounters her at night. This spectre, 
which is profoundly believed in by the villagers, had not 
been seen for at least two years before the murder, but 
she made a reappearance a night or two after the crime, 
and is supposed to have been seen frequently ever since. 
It looks to me as though Benson set the story going again 
in order to keep the credulous villagers away from the 
pit where the money was concealed. 

“This morning, in company with Mr. Oakham, I saw 
Penreath in the gaol, and by a ruse induced him to break 
his stubborn silence. His story, which it is not necessary 
for me to give you in detail, testifies to his innocence, 
and supports my own theory of the crime. He did not 
see the murder committed, but he saw the girl go into 
the room, and subsequently he saw her father enter and 
remove the body. It was the latter spectacle that robbed 
him of any lingering doubts he may have had of the girl’s 
guilt, and forced him to the conclusion that she and her 
father were accomplices in the crime. But he loved her 
so that he determined to keep silence and shield her.” 


CHAPTER XXVI 


“This is a remarkable story, Mr. Colwyn, ,, said the 
chief constable, breaking the rather lengthy silence which 
followed the conclusion of the detective’s reconstruction 
of the crime. “It has been quite entrancing to listen 
to your syllogistical skill. You would have made an 
excellent Crown Pros€cutor. ,, The chief constable’s offi- 
cial mind could conceive no higher compliment. “Your 
statements seem almost too incredible for belief, but un- 
doubtedly you have made out a case for the further in- 
vestigation of this crime. What do you think, Gallo- 
way ?” 

“The question, to my mind, is what Mr. Colwyn’s dis- 
coveries really represent,” replied Galloway. “He has 
built up a very ingenious and plausible reconstruction, 
but let us discard mere theory, and stick to the facts. 
What do they amount to? Apart from Penreath’s state- 
ment in the gaol that he saw the body carried down 
stairs ” 

“You can leave that out of the question,” said the 
detective curtly. “My reconstruction of the crime is 
independent of Penreath’s testimony, which is open to 
the objection that it should have been made before.” 

“Exactly what I was going to point out,” rejoined 
Galloway bluntly. “Well, then, let us examine the fresh 
facts. There are five as I see them. The recovery of 
Penreath’s match-box, the discovery of the door between 
the two rooms, the wound on the innkeeper’s forehead, 
the additional key, and the recovery of the pocket-book 
3i3 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


3 J 4 

from the pit. Exclude the idea of conspiracy, and the 
recovery of the match-box becomes an additional point 
against Penreath, because it strikes me as guess work 
to assume that he had no other matches in his possession 
except that particular box and the loose one he found in 
his vest pocket. Smokers frequently carry two or three 
boxes of matches. The discovery of the hidden door is 
interesting, but has no direct bearing on the crime. The 
wound on the innkeeper’s head looks suspicious, but 
there is no proof that it was caused by his knocking his 
head against the gas globe in the murdered man’s room 
on the night of the murder. As Mr. Colwyn himself 
has pointed out, there is not much in Benson having a 
second key of Glenthorpe’s room. Many hotelkeepers 
and innkeepers keep duplicate keys of bedrooms. The 
significance of this discovery is that Benson kept silence 
about the existence of this key. Undoubtedly he should 
have told us about it, but I am not prepared to accept, 
offhand, that his silence was the silence of a guilty man. 
He may have kept silence regarding it through a foolish 
fear of directing suspicion to himself. That theory 
seems to me quite as probable as Mr. Colwyn’s theory. 
There remains the recovery of the money in the pit. In 
considering that point I find it impossible to overlook 
that Penreath returned to the wood after making his 
escape. That suggests, to my mind, that he hid the 
money in the pit himself, and took the risk of returning 
in order to regain possession of it.” 

“You are worthier of the chief constable’s compliment 
than I, my dear Galloway,” said Colwyn genially. “Your 
gift of overcoming points which tell against you by 
ignoring them, and your careful avoidance of telltale 
inferences, would make you an ideal Crown Prosecutor.” 

“I don’t believe in inferences in crime,” replied Gallo- 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 315 

way, flushing under the detective’s sarcasm. “I am a 
plain man, and I like to stick to facts.” 

“What was the whole of your case against Penreath 
but a series of inferences?” retorted Colwyn. “Circum- 
stantial evidence, and the circumstances on which you 
depended in this case, were never fully established. 
Furthermore, your facts were not consistent with your 
original hypothesis, and had to be altered when the case 
went to trial. Now that I have discovered other facts 
and inferences which are consistent with another hypo- 
thesis, you strive to shut your eyes to them, or draw 
wrong conclusions from them. Your suggestion that 
Penreath must have hidden the money in the pit be- 
cause he was arrested near it is a choice example of 
false deduction based on the wrong premise that Pen- 
reath hid the money there on the night of the murder. 
He could not have done so because he had no rope, and 
how was he, a stranger to the place, to know that the 
inside of the pit was covered with creeping plants of 
sufficient strength to bear a man’s weight? The choice 
of the pit as a hiding place for the money argues an 
intimate local knowledge.” 

“You have not yet told us how you came to deduce 
that the money was in the pit,” said Mr. Cromering, who 
had been examining the pocket-book and money. 

“While I was examining the mouth of the pit the 
previous afternoon I found this piece of paper at the 
brink, trodden into the clay. Later on I recognised the 
peculiar watermark of waving lines as the Government 
watermark in the first issue of Treasury war notes. 
From that I deduced that the money was hidden in the 
pit. It was all in Treasury notes, as you see.” 

“I’m afraid I don’t quite follow you now,” said the 
chief constable, with a puzzled glance at the piece of 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


316 

dirty paper in his hand. “This piece of paper is not a 
Treasury note.” 

“Not now, perhaps, but it was once,” said the detective 
with a smile. “It puzzled me at first. I could not ac- 
count for the Treasury watermark, designed to prevent 
forgery of the notes, appearing on a piece of blank paper. 
Then it came to me. The first issue of Treasury notes 
were very badly printed. Ordinary black ink was used, 
which would disappear if the note was immersed in 
water. It was an official at Somerset House who told me 
this. He informed me that they had several cases of 
munition workers who, after being paid in Treasury 
notes, had put them into the pockets of their overalls, 
and forgotten about them until the overalls came back 
from the wash with every vestige of printing washed 
out from the notes, leaving nothing but the watermarks. 
It occurred to me that the same thing had happened in 
this case. The murderer, when about to descend to the 
pit to conceal the money, had accidentally dropped a note 
and trodden it underfoot, and it had lain out in the open 
exposed to heavy rains and dew until every scrap of 
printing was obliterated.” 

“By Jove, that’s very clever, very clever indeed!” ex- 
claimed Galloway. He picked up a magnifying glass 
which was lying on the table, and closely examined the 
dirty piece of white paper which Colwyn had found at 
the mouth of the pit. “It was once a Treasury note, 
sure enough — the watermark is unmistakable. You’ve 
scored a point there that I couldn’t have made, and I’m 
man enough to own up to it. You see more deeply into 
things than I do, Mr. Colwyn. And I’m willing to admit 
that you’ve made some new and interesting discoveries 
about this case, though in my opinion you are inclined 
to read too much into them. But I certainly think they 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


3i7 


ought to be investigated further. If Penreath’s state- 
ment to you this morning is true, Benson is the murderer, 
and there has been a miscarriage of justice. But what 
makes me doubt the truth of it is Penreath’s refusal to 
speak before. I mistrust confessions made out at the 
last moment. And his explanation that he kept silence 
to save the girl strikes me as rather thin. It is too 
quixotic.” 

“There is more than that in it,” replied Colwyn. “He 
had a double motive. Penreath heard Sir Henry Dur- 
wood depose at the trial that he believed him to be 
suffering from epilepsy.” 

“How does that constitute a second motive ?” 

“In this way. Penreath has a highly-strung, intro- 
spective temperament. He went to the front from a high 
sense of duty, but he was temperamentally unfit for the 
ghastly work of modern warfare, and broke down under 
the strain. Men like Penreath feel it keenly when they 
are discharged through shell-shock. They feel that the 
carefully hidden weaknesses of their temperaments have 
been dragged out into the light of day, and imagine they 
have been branded as cowards in the eyes of their fellow 
men. I suspect that the real reason why Penreath left 
London and sought refuge in Norfolk under another 
name was because he had been discharged from the 
Army through shell-shock. He wanted to get away from 
London and hide himself from those who knew him. 
To his wounded spirit the condolences of his friends 
would be akin to taunts and sneers. When Sir Henry 
Durwood questioned him he was careful to conceal the 
fact that he had been a victim of shell-shock. As a 
matter of fact, Penreath’s behaviour in the breakfast 
room that morning was nothing more than the effects of 
the air raid on his disordered nerves, but he would 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


3i8 

sooner have died than admit that to strangers. After 
listening to the evidence for the defence at the trial, 
he came to the conclusion that he was an epileptic as 
well as a neurasthenic. He might well believe that life 
held little for him in these circumstances, and that con- 
viction would strengthen him in his determination to 
sacrifice his life as a thing of little value for the girl he 
loved. ,, 

“If that is true he must be a very manly young fellow/* 
said the chief constable. 

“Supposing it is true, what is to be done ?’* asked Gallo- 
way, earnestly. “Penreath has been tried and convicted 
for the murder.” 

“The conviction will be upset on appeal/* replied the 
detective decisively. 

“But I do not see that carries us much further for- 
ward as regards Benson/* persisted Galloway. “If he is 
the murderer, as you say, he will clear out as soon as 
he hears that Penreath is appealing.* , 

“He will not be able to clear out if you arrest him.’* 
“On what grounds ? I cannot arrest him for a murder 
for which another man has been sentenced to death.** 
“True. But you can arrest him as accessory after the 
fact, on the ground that he carried the body down- 
stairs and threw it into the pit.** 

“And suppose he denies having done so? Look here, 
Mr. Colwyn, I want to help you all I can, but if I have 
made one mistake, I do not want to make a second one. 
Frankly, I do not know what to think of your story. It 
may be true, or it may not. But speaking from a police 
point of view, we have mighty little to go on if we arrest 
Benson. If he likes to bluff us we may find ourselves 
in an awkward position. Nobody saw him commit the 
murder.** 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


3i9 


“l realise the truth of what you say because I thought 
it all over before coming to see you,” replied Colwyn. 
“If Benson denies the truth of the points I have dis- 
covered against him, or gives them a different interpreta- 
tion, it may be difficult to prove them. But he will not — 
he will confess all he knows.” 

“What makes you think so ?” 

“Because his nerve has gone. If I had confronted him 
that night when I saw him in the room I would have 
got the whole truth from him.” 

“Why did you not do so?” 

“Because I had not the power to detain him. I am 
merely a private detective, and can neither arrest a man 
nor threaten him with arrest. That is why I have come 
to you. You, with the powers of the law behind you, 
can frighten Benson into a confession much more effect- 
ually than I could.” 

“I don’t half like it,” grumbled Galloway. “There’s 
a risk about it ” 

“It’s a risk that must be taken, nevertheless.” It 
was Mr. Cromering who intervened in the discussion 
between the two, and he spoke with unusual decision. 
“I agree with Mr. Colwyn that this is the best course 
to pursue. I will go with you and take full responsibility,, 
Galloway.” 

“There is no need for that,” said Galloway quickly. 
“I am quite willing to go.” 

“I will accompany you and Mr. Colwyn. It has been 
a remarkable case throughout, and I want to see the end 
— if this is the end. I feel keenly interested in this 
young man’s fate.” 

“I should like to go also, but an engagement prevents 
me,” said Mr. Oakham. “I am quite content to leave 
Penreath’s interests in Mr. Colwyn’s capable hands.” He 


320 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


rose as he spoke, and held out his hand to the detective. 
“We have all been in error, but you have saved us 
from having an irreparable wrong on our consciences. 
I cannot forgive myself for my blindness. Perhaps you 
will acquaint me with the result of your visit when you 
return. I shall be anxious to know.” 

“I will not fail to do so,” replied Colwyn, grasping 
the solicitor’s hand. “We had better catch the five 
o’clock train to Heathfield and walk across to Flegne,” 
he added, turning to the others. “It will be as quick as 
motoring across, and the sound of the car might put 
Benson on his guard. We want to take him unawares.” 

“He’ll have got wind of sometEing already if he finds 
the pocket-book gone,” said Galloway. “He may have 
bolted while we have been talking over things here.” 

“I’ve seen to that,” replied the detective. “I tied my 
own pocket-book to the fishing line in the pit, and left 
Queensmead watching the pit. If Benson tries to escape 
with my pocket-book Queensmead will arrest him for 
robbery. I’ve made a complaint of the loss.” 

“You haven’t left much to chance,” replied Galloway, 
with a grim smile. 


CHAPTER XXVII 


It was characteristic of Mr. Cromering to beguile the 
long walk in the dark from Heathfield Station by dis- 
cussing Colwyn’s theory that Benson had circulated the 
reappearance of the White Lady of the Shrieking Pit 
in order to keep the villagers away from the place where 
the stolen money was hidden. Mr. Cromering had been 
much impressed — he said so — with the logical skill and 
masterly deductive powers by which Colwyn had recon- 
structed the hidden events of the night of the murder, 
like an Owen reconstructing the extinct moa from a 
single bone, but he was loath to accept that part of the 
theory which seemed to throw doubt on the authenticity 
of a famous venerable Norfolk legend which had at 
least two hundred years of tradition behind it. 

Mr. Cromering, without going so far as to affirm his 
personal belief in the story, declared that there were sev- 
eral instances extant of enlightened and educated people 
who had seen the ghost, and had suffered an untimely 
end in consequence. Pie cited the case of a visiting 
magistrate, who had been visiting in the district some 
twenty years ago, and knew nothing about the legend. 
He was riding through Flegne one night, and heard dismal 
shrieks from the wood on the rise. Thinking somebody 
was in need of help, he dismounted from his horse, and 
went up to the rise to investigate. As he neared the 
pit the White Lady appeared from the pit and looked 
at him with inexpressibly sad eyes, drew her hand thrice 
across her throat, and disappeared again in the pit. The 
magistrate was greatly startled at what he had seen, and 
321 


322 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


related the experience to his host when he got home. 
The latter did not tell him of the tragic significance which 
was attached to the apparition, but the magistrate cut his 
throat three days after his return to London. “Surely, 
that was more than a mere coincidence ?” concluded Mr. 
Cromering. 

“I do not wish to undermine the local belief in the 
White Lady of the Shrieking Pit, ,, said Colwyn, with a 
smile which the darkness hid. “All I say is that her 
frequent reappearances since the money was hidden in 
the pit were exceedingly useful for the man who hid the 
money. I can assure you that none of the villagers would 
go near the pit for twice the amount. There are plenty 
of them who will go to their graves convinced that they 
have heard her nightly shrieks since the murder was com- 
mitted.” 

“It is difficult to believe that they are all mistaken,” 
said Mr. Cromering slowly. 

“I do not think they are mistaken — at least, not all of 
them. Some have probably heard shrieks.” 

“Then how do you account for the shrieks ?” asked the 
chief constable eagerly. 

“I think they have heard Benson’s mother shrieking 
in her paroxysms of madness.” 

“By Jove, that’s a shrewd notion !” chuckled Superin- 
tendent Galloway. “You don’t miss much, Mr. Colwyn. 
Whether you’re right or not, there’s not the slightest 
doubt that the whole village is in terror of the ghost, and 
avoids the Shrieking Pit like a pestilence. I was talking 
to a Flegne farmer the other day, and he assured me, 
with a pale face, that he had heard the White Lady 
shrieking three nights running, and when his men went 
to the inn after dark they walked half a mile out of 
their way to avoid passing near the pit. He told me 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


323 


also that the general belief among the villagers is that 
Mr. Glenthorpe saw the White Lady a night or so before 
he was murdered. ,, 

. "I heard that story also,” responded Colwyn. “He 
was in the habit of walking up to the rise after dark. 
He appears to have been keenly interested in his scien- 
tific work.” 

“He was absorbed in it to the exclusion of everything 
else,” said the chief constable, with a sigh. “His death 
is a great loss to British science, and Norfolk research 
in particular. I was very much interested in that news- 
paper clipping which was found in his pocket-book with 
the money. It was a London review on a brochure he 
had published on sponge spicules he had found in a flint 
at Flegne, and was his last contribution to science, pub- 
lished two days before he was struck down. What a 
loss !” 

Their conversation had brought them to the top of 
the rise. Beneath them lay the little hamlet on the edge 
of the marshes, wrapped in a white blanket of mist. Col- 
wyn asked his companions to remain where they were, 
while he went to see if Queensmead was on the watch. 
He walked quickly across the hut circles until he reached 
the pit. There his keen eyes detected a dark figure stand- 
ing motionless in the shadow of the wood. 

“Is that you, Queensmead?” he said, in a low voice. 

“Yes, Mr. Colwyn.” The figure advanced out of the 
shadow. 

“Is everything all right?” 

“Quite all right, sir. Fve watched from this spot 
from dark till dawn since you’ve been away, and there’s 
not been a soul near the pit. I’ve not been disturbed— 
not even by the White Lady.” 

“You have done excellently. The chief constable and 


324 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


Superintendent Galloway have come over with me, and 
we are going to the inn now. You had better keep watch 
here for half an hour longer, so as to be on the safe side. 
If anybody comes to the pit during that time you must 
detain him, and call for assistance. I will come and 
relieve you myself.” 

“Very good, sir, you can depend on me,” said Queens- 
mead quietly, as he returned to his post. 

Colwyn rejoined his companions, and told them what 
had passed. 

“I want to be on the safe side in case Benson tries to 
bolt when he sees us,” he explained. “He’s hardly likely 
to go without making an effort to get the money. Now t , 
let us go to the inn. 

“One moment,” said the chief constable. “How do 
you propose to proceed when we get there?” 

“Get Benson by himself and frighten him into a con- 
fession,” was the terse reply. “I want your authority 
to threaten him with arrest. In fact, I should prefer 
that you or Superintendent Galloway undertook to do 
that. It would come with more force.” 

“Let it be Galloway,” responded the chief constable. 
“You will act just as if I was not present, Galloway, 
and it is my wish that you do whatever Mr. Colwyn asks 
you.” 

“Thank you,” replied the detective. “Let us go, now. 
There is no time to be lost. Somebody may have seen 
me speaking to Queensmead.” 

They descended the rise and, reaching the flat, dis- 
cerned the gaunt walls of the old inn looming spectrally 
from the mist. A light glimmered in the bar, and loud 
voices were heard within. Colwyn felt for the door. 
It was shut and fastened. He knocked sharply; the 
voices within ceased as though by magic, and presently 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


325 


there was the sound of somebody coming along the pas- 
sage. Then the door was opened, and the white face 
of Charles appeared in the doorway, framed in the yellow 
light of a candle which he held above his head as he 
peered forth into the mist. His black eyes roved from 
Colwyn to the forms behind him. 

“Pm sorry you were kept waiting, sir,” he said, in his 
strange whisper, which seemed to have a tremor in it. 
“But the customers will have the door locked at night 
now. They are frightened of this ghost — this White 
Lady — she’s been heard shrieking ” 

“Never mind that now,” replied Colwyn. He had de- 
termined how to act, and stepped quickly inside. 
“Where’s Benson?” 

“He’s sitting upstairs with his mother, sir. Shall I tell 
him you want him ?” 

“No. I will go myself. Take these gentlemen into 
the bar parlour, and return to the bar.” 

Colwyn made his way upstairs in the dark. He passed 
the rooms where Mr. Glenthorpe had been murdered and 
Penreath had slept, and the room from which he had 
watched Peggy’s nocturnal visit to the death chamber. 
That wing of the inn was as empty and silent as it had 
been the night of the murder, but a lighted candle, placed 
on an old hall stand which Colwyn remembered having 
seen that night in the lumber room, flickered in the 
wavering shadows — a futile human effort to ward off 
the lurking terrors of darkness by the friendly feeble 
companionship of a light which could be extinguished 
even more quickly than a life. 

Colwyn took the candle to light him down the second 
passage to the mad woman’s room. As he reached it, the 
door opened, and Peggy stepped forth. She recoiled at 
the sight of the detective. 


326 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


“You!” she breathed. “Oh, why ” 

“I have come to see your father,” said Colwyn. It 
went to his heart to see the entreaty in her eyes, the piti- 
ful droop of her lips and the thinness of her face. 

The door was opened widely, and the innkeeper ap- 
peared on the threshold beside his daughter. Behind 
him, Colwyn could see the old mad woman in her bed 
in the comer of the room, mumbling to herself and 
fondling her doll. The innkeeper fastened his birdlike 
eyes on the detective’s face. 

“What are you doing here?” he said, and there was 
no mistaking the note of terror in his voice. “What is 
it you want?” 

“I want to speak to you downstairs,” said the detective. 

The innkeeper looked swiftly to the right and left with 
the instinct of a trapped animal seeking an avenue of 
escape. Then his eyes returned to the detective’s face 
with the resigned glance of a man who had made up his 
mind. 

“I will come down with you,” he said. “Peggy, you 
must look after your grandmother till I return.” 

The girl went back into the room and shut the door be- 
hind her, without a word or a glance. Once more 
Colwyn felt admiration for her as a rare type of woman- 
hood. Truly, she had self-control, this girl. 

He and the innkeeper took their way along the pas- 
sages and descended the stairs without exchanging a 
word. When they got to the foot of the stairs Benson 
half hesitated, and turned to Colwyn as if for direction. 
The latter nodded towards the door of the bar parlour, 
and motioned the innkeeper to enter. Following closely 
behind, he saw the innkeeper start with surprise at the 
sight of the two inmates of the room. Mr. Cromering 
was seated at the table, but Superintendent Galloway was 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


3 2 7 


standing up with his back to the fireplace. There was a 
moment’s tense silence before the latter spoke. 

“We have sent for you to ask you a few questions, 
Benson.” 

“I was under the impression — that is, I was led to 
believe — that it was Mr. Colwyn who wanted to see me.” 

“Never mind what you thought,” retorted Galloway 
impatiently. “You know perfectly well what has brought 
us here. I’m going to ask you some questions about the 
murder which was committed in this inn less than three 
weeks ago.” 

“I know nothing about it, sir, beyond what I told you 
before.” 

“You will be well advised, in your own interests, not 
to lie, Benson. Why did you not tell us you had a 
second key to Mr. Glenthorpe’s room?” 

There was a perceptible pause before the reply came. 

“I didn’t think it mattered, sir.” 

“Then you admit you have a second key ?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Very well.” Superintendent Galloway took out a 
pocket-book and made a note of the reply. “Now, where 
did you conceal the money?” 

“What money, sir?” \ 

“Don’t equivocate, man!” Superintendent Galloway 
produced the pocket-book Colwyn had recovered from 
the pit, and held it at arm’s length in front of the inn- 
keeper. “I mean the £300 in Treasury notes in this 
pocket-book, which Mr. Glenthorpe drew from the bank, 
and which you took from his room the night he was mur- 
dered.” 

“I know nothing about it.” 

To Colwyn at least it seemed that the expression on 
the innkeeper’s face as he glanced at the pocket-book 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


328 

might have been mistaken by an unprejudiced observer 
for genuine surprise. 

"I suppose you never saw it before, eh?” sneered Gal- 
loway. 

“I never did.” 

“Nor hid it in the pit?” 

“No, sir.” 

Galloway paused in his questioning in secret perplexity. 
Benson’s answers to his last three questions were given so 
firmly and unhesitatingly that some of his former doubts 
of Colwyn’s theory returned to him with redoubled force. 
But it was in his most truculent and overbearing manner 
that he next remarked : 

“Do you also deny that you carried Mr. Glenthorpe’s 
body from his room and threw it down the pit?” 

The spasm of sudden terror which contorted the inn- 
keeper’s face was a revelation to the three men who were 
watching him closely. 

“I don’t know anything about it,” he quavered weakly. 

“That won’t go down, Benson !” Galloway was quick 
to follow up his stroke, shaking his head fiercely, like a 
dog worrying a rat. “You were seen carrying the body 
downstairs, the night of the murder. You might as well 
own up to it, first as last. Lies will not help you. We 
know too much for you to wriggle out of it. And never 
mind smoothing your hair down like that. We know all 
about that scar on your forehead, and how you got it.” 

A wooden clock, standing on the mantelpiece, measured 
off half a minute in heavy ticks. Then the innkeeper, in 
a voice which was little more than a whisper, spoke: 

“It is true. I carried the body downstairs.” 

“Why did you not tell us this before?” 

“It would not have made any difference.” 

“What!” Superintendent Galloway’s indignation and 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


329 


amazement threatened to choke his utterance. “You 
keep silence till an innocent man is almost hanged for 
your misdeeds, and now have the brazen effrontery to say 
it makes no difference. ,, 

“Is Mr. Penreath innocent ?” 

“Nobody should know that better than you.” 

“Then who murdered Mr. Glenthorpe ?” 

“Let us have no more of this fooling, Benson.” Super- 
intendent Galloway's voice was very stern. “You have 
already admitted that you carried Mr. Glenthorpe’s body 
downstairs.” 

“Oh!” The wretched man cried out wildly, like one 
who sees an engulfing wave too late. “I see what you 
mean — you think I murdered him. But I did not — I did 
not! Before God I am innocent.” His voice rang out 
loudly. 

“We don’t want to listen to this talk,” interrupted 
Galloway roughly. “You are under arrest, Benson, for 
complicity in this murder, and the less you say the better 
for yourself.” 

“But I tell you I am innocent.” The innkeeper brought 
his skeleton hands together in a gesture which was al- 
most tragic in its despair. “I carried the body down- 
stairs, but I did not murder him. Let me explain. Let 
me tell you ” 

“My advice to you is to keep silence, man. Keep your 
story for the trial,” replied the police official. “You’d 
better get ready to go to Heathfield with me. I’ll go 
upstairs with you, to give you five minutes to get ready.” 

“Let him tell his story before you take him away, 
Galloway,” said Colwyn, who had been keenly watching 
the innkeeper’s face during the dialogue between him 
and his accuser. “I want to hear it.” 

“I do not see what good it will do,” grumbled Superin- 


330 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


tendent Galloway. “However, as you want to hear it, 
let him go ahead. But let me first warn you, Benson, 
that anything you say now may be used in evidence 
against you afterwards. ,, 

“I do not care for that — I am not afraid of the truth 
being known,” replied the innkeeper. He turned from 
the uncompromising face of the police officer to Colwyn, 
as though he divined in him a more unprejudiced listener. 
“I did not murder Mr. Glenthorpe, but I went to his 
room with the intention of robbing him the night he was 
murdered,” he commenced. “I was in desperate straits 
for money. The brewer had threatened to turn me out 
of the inn because I couldn’t pay my way. I knew Mr. 
Glenthorpe had taken money out of the bank that morn- 
ing, and in an evil moment temptation overcame me, 
and I determined to rob him. I told myself that he 
was a wealthy man and would never feel the loss of 
the money, but if I was turned out of the inn my daugh- 
ter and my old mother would starve. 

“My plan was to go to his room after everybody was 
asleep, let myself in with my key, and secure the pocket- 
book containing the money. I knew that Mr. Glenthorpe 
was a sound sleeper, and I was aware that he generally 
locked his door and slept with the key under his pillow. 

“I went to my room early that night, and waited a 
long time before making the attempt. It came on to rain 
about eleven o’clock, and I waited some time longer 
before leaving my room. I walked in my stocking feet, 
so as to make no sound, and I carried a candle, but it 
was not lighted. When I got to the door I stood and 
listened awhile outside, thinking I might judge by Mr. 
Glenthorpe’s breathing whether he was asleep, but I 
could hear nothing. I unlocked the door quietly, and 
felt my way towards the bed in the dark, hoping to find 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


33i 

his coat and the money in it without running the risk of 
striking a light. 

“But I could not lay my hands on the coat in the dark^ 
so I struck a match to light the candle. I had made up 
my mind that if Mr. Glenthorpe should wake up and see 
me at his bedside I would tell him the truth and ask him 
to lend me some money. 

“By the light of the candle I saw Mr. Glenthorpe 
lying on his back, with his arms thrown out from his 
body. He was uncovered, and the bed-clothes were lying 
in a tumbled heap at the foot of the bed. I stood look- 
ing at him for a minute, not knowing what to do. I 
did not realise at the time that he was dead, because the 
wind blowing in at the open window caused the candle 
to flicker, and I could not see very clearly. I thought 
he must be in a fit, and I wondered what I could do to 
help him. As the candle still kept flickering in the wind, 
I picked up the candlestick and walked to the gas-jet in 
the centre of the room, turned on the tap and tried to 
light it with the candle. It would not light, and then I 
remembered that I had told Ann to turn it off at the 
meter before going to bed. I walked back to the bedside, 
put the candle down on the table, and had a closer look 
at Mr. Glenthorpe. As he was still in the same attitude 
I put my hand on his heart to see if it was beating. I 
felt something warm and wet, and when I drew back 
my hand I saw that it was covered with blood. 

“When I realised that he was dead— murdered — I lost 
my nerve and rushed from the room, leaving the candle 
burning at the bedside. My one thought was to get 
downstairs and wash the blood off my hand. It was 
not until I had reached the kitchen that I remembered that 
I had left the candle burning upstairs. I considered 
whether I should return for it at once or wash my hands 


332 THE SHRIEKING PIT 

first. I decided on the latter course, and went into 
the kitchen. 

“I had just lit a candle, when I heard a door open 
behind me, and, turning round, I saw Charles coming out 
of his room in his shirt and trousers, with a candle in 
his hand. He said he had seen the light under his door, 
and wondering who had come into the kitchen had got 
up to see. Then his face changed when he saw my hands, 
and he asked me how the blood came to be on them. 

“I tried to put him off at first by telling him I had 
knocked my hand upstairs. He didn’t say any more, 
but stood there watching me wash my hands, and when 
I had finished he said that if I was going upstairs he 
would come with me, as he remembered he had left his 
corkscrew in Mr. Glenthorpe’s sitting room, and would 
want it in the morning. 

“I could see that he suspected me, and that if he went 
upstairs he would see the light burning in Mr. Glen- 
thorpe’s bedroom, and might go in. So, in desperation, 
I confessed to him that I had gone into Mr. Glenthorpe’s 
room, and found him dead. I asked Charles what I 
should do. Ho heard me very quietly, but when he learnt 
that I had left my candle burning in Mr. Glenthorpe’s 
room he said the first thing was to go and get that, and 
then we could discuss what had better be done. 

“I realised that was good advice, and went upstairs 
to get the candlestick. But when I got to the door I 
was amazed to find the room in darkness. The door 
was on the jar, just as I remembered leaving it, but 
there was not a glimmer of light. I was in a terrible 
fright, but as I stood there in the dark, listening intently, 
the sound of the wind roaring round the house reminded 
me how the candle had flickered in the wind while I was 
in the room before, and I concluded that it must have 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


333 


blown out the light. So I went into the room, feeling 
my way along the walls with my hands. When I got 
near the bed I struck a match and looked for the candle- 
stick. But it was. gone. 

'Then I knew somebody had been in the room, and I 
made my way downstairs again as fast as I could, and told 
Charles, and asked him what he thought of it. Charles 
said it was clear that the murderer, whoever he was, had 
revisited the room since I had been there, and finding the 
candle, had carried it off with him. I asked Charles 
for what purpose? Charles turned it over in his mind 
for a moment, and then said that it seemed to him that he 
might have done it to secure himself, in case he was 
caught, by being able to prove that somebody else had 
been in Mr. Glenthorpe’s room that night. 

'‘I saw the force of that and was greatly alarmed, and 
asked Charles what he thought I had better do. Charles, 
after thinking it over for a while, said in my own inter- 
ests I would be well advised if I carried the body away 
and concealed it somewhere where it was not likely to 
be found. He pointed out that if the facts came to light 
it would be very awkward for me. On my own admis- 
sion I had gone into Mr. Glenthorpe’s room in the middle 
of the night, and had come away leaving him dead in 
bed, with his blood on my hands, and my bedroom 
candlestick alight at his bedside. Charles pointed out 
that these facts were sure to come to light if the body 
was left where it was, but if the body was removed and 
safely hidden, it might be thought that Mr. Glenthorpe 
had simply disappeared. 

“I was struck by the force of these arguments, and 
we next discussed where the body should be hidden. 
We both thought of the pit, but I didn't like that idea 
at first because I thought the police would be sure to 


334 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


search the pit when they learnt of Mr. Glenthorpe’s 
disappearance, because his excavations were near the pit. 
Charles, on the other hand, thought it was the safest 
place — much safer than the sea, which was sure to cast 
up the body. He said it would never occur to the police 
to search the pit, until the body had lain there so long 
that it would be impossible to say how he came by his 
death. Perhaps it would never be searched, in which 
case the body would never be recovered. 

“We decided on the pit, and Charles said he would 
keep watch downstairs while I went up and got the 
body. But first I went and opened the back door and 
went to the side of the inn to see if anybody was about. 
The rain had ceased, it was a dark and stormy night, 
and everybody long since gone to bed. The rough stones 
outside cut my feet, and recalled to my mind that I was 
without boots. I knew I could not carry the body all 
the way up the rise without boots, and I was about to 
go to my room to get them when I remembered that I 
had seen Penreath’s boots outside his bedroom door. I 
decided to wear them and avoid the risk of going back to 
my room for my own boots. I have a small foot, and I 
had no doubt that they would fit me. 

“Charles suggested that I should go into the room in 
the dark, so as to lessen the risk of being seen, and light 
the candle when I got inside. I took the candle, but I 
said I would turn on the gas at the meter, in case the 
wind blew out the candle. I will keep nothing back now. 
The real reason was that I wanted the better light to 
make quite sure if the money was gone. I thought per- 
haps the murderer might have overlooked it, and I hoped 
to find it because I needed it so badly. When I got 
upstairs I stopped outside Mr. Penreath’s room, picked 
up his boots, and put them on. I went into the room in 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


335 


the dark, intending to strike a match, and light the gas, 
and search for the money. I miscalculated the distance, 
and bumped into the gas globe in the dark, cutting my 
head badly. When I struck a match I found that I 
couldn’t light the gas because the incandescent burner 
had been broken by the blow, so I lit the candle. 

“I shuddered at the ordeal of carrying the body down- 
stairs, and only nerved myself to the task by reflecting 
on the risk to myself if I allowed it to remain where it 
was. As I stood by the bedside, I noticed Mr. Glen- 
thorpe’s key of the room lying by the pillow, and I picked 
it up and put it in my pocket. I then lifted the body 
on my shoulders, carried it downstairs, steadying it with 
one hand, and carrying the candle in the other. Charles 
was waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs, and he 
took the candle from me and lighted me to the back door. 

“A late moon was just beginning to show above the 
horizon when I got outside, and by its light I had no 
difficulty in finding my way up the rise and to the pit. 
It was a terrible task, and I was glad when I had ac- 
complished it. I returned to the back door, where 
Charles was awaiting me. We then fastened the back 
door, and he went to his room off the kitchen, and I 
went upstairs to my room. As I passed Mr. Glenthorpe’s 
room I saw the door was open, and I pulled it quickly 
to, but I forgot to take out the key I had left in the door 
when I first entered the room. 

“I remembered the key in the morning when Ann told 
me Mr. Glenthorpe’s room was empty, but I dared not 
remove it then because I knew Ann must have seen it. 
And later on, when you were questioning me about the 
key in the door, I was afraid to tell you about the second 
key, because I knew you would question me. 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


336 

“When I learnt from Ann that Mr. Penreath had 
left early in the morning, and wouldn’t stay for break- 
fast, I felt sure it was he who had committed the murder. 
It was a little later that Charles took me aside in the bar 
and told me that he had walked up to the rise early that 
morning to see if everything was all right, and that I 
had left traces of my footprints across the clay to the 
mouth of the pit. I was very much upset when I heard 
this, for I knew the body was sure to be found. But 
Charles said that, as things turned out, it was a very lucky 
accident. 

“Charles said there was no doubt Mr. Penreath was 
the murderer. He had not only cleared out, but the knife 
he had used at dinner had disappeared. Charles said 
he had not missed the knife the night before, but he had 
discovered the loss when counting the cutlery that morn- 
ing. If the police found out that it was his boots which 
made the prints leading to the pit it would only be an- 
other point against him, and as he was sure to be hanged 
in any case the best thing I could do was to go and inform 
Constable Queensmead of Mr. Glenthorpe’s disappear- 
ance and Mr. Penreath’s departure, but to keep silence 
about my own share in carrying the body to the pit. 
Even if the murderer denied removing the body nobody 
would believe him. I thought the advice good, and I 
followed it. I don’t know whether I could have kept 
it up if I had been cross-questioned, but from first to 
last nobody seemed to have the least suspicion of me. 
The only time I was really afraid was when one of you 
gentlemen asked me about the key in the outside of the 
door, but you passed it over and went on to something 
else. 

“And now you know the whole truth. But I should 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


337 


like to say that I kept silence about carrying the body 
away because I didn’t think I was injuring anybody. I 
believed Mr. Penreath to be guilty. Now you tell me 
he is innocent. If I had had any idea of that I would 
have told the truth at once, even though you had hanged 
me for it.” 


CHAPTER XXVIII 


“You’re a nice scoundrel, Benson,” said Superin- 
tendent Galloway, nodding his head at the innkeeper with 
a kind of ferocious banter. “You’re really a first-class 
villain, upon my soul! But this precious story with 
which you’ve tried to bamboozle us is not complete. 
Would it be putting too much strain on your inventive 
faculties to ask you, while you are about it, to give us 
your version of how the money which was stolen from 
Mr. Glenthorpe came to be hidden in the pit in which you 
flung his body?” 

“But I didn’t know the money was hidden in the pit,” 
said the wretched man, glancing uneasily at the pocket- 
book, which was still lying on the table. “I never saw 
the money, though I’ve confessed to you that I would 
have taken it if I had seen it. That’s the truth, sir— « 
every word I’ve told you to-night is true! Charles will 
bear me out.” 

“I’ve no doubt he will. I’ll have something to say to 
that scoundrel later on. There’s a pair of you. I’ve no 
doubt he caught you in the act of carrying away the body 
of your victim, and that you bribed him to keep silence. 
You planned together to let an innocent man go to the 
gallows in order to save your own skin. Now, my 
man ” 

“Wait a moment, Galloway.” 

It was Colwyn who spoke. The innkeeper’s story had 
been to him like a finger of light in a murky depth, re- 
vealing unseen and unimagined abominations, but sup- 
338 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


339 


plying him with those missing pieces of the puzzle for 
which he had long and vainly searched. During the brief 
colloquy between Galloway and the innkeeper his brain 
had been busy fitting together the whole intricate design 
of knavery. 

“I want to ask a question,” he continued, in answer 
to the other’s glance of inquiry. “What time was it you 
went to Mr. Glenthorpe’s room — the first time I mean, 
Benson. Can you fix it definitely?” 

“Yes, sir. I kept looking at my watch in my room, 
waiting for the time to pass. It was twenty past eleven 
the last time I looked, and I left my room about five 
minutes later.” 

“Was it raining then?” 

“Yes, sir, but not so hard as previously, and it stopped 
altogether before I entered the room, though the wind 
was blowing.” 

“That is as I thought. Benson’s story is true, Gallo- 
way.” 

“What!” The police officer’s vociferous exclamation 
was in striking contrast to the detective’s quiet tones. 
“How do you make that out?” 

“He couldn’t have committed the murder. Mr. Glen- 
thorpe was killed during the storm, between eleven and 
half-past. Benson says he didn’t enter the room till 
nearly half-past eleven.” 

“If that’s all you’re going on ” 

“It isn’t.” There was a trace of irritation in the de- 
tective’s voice. “But Benson’s story fills in the gaps of 
my reconstruction in a remarkable way — so completely, 
that he couldn’t have invented it to save his life, because 
he does not know all we know. In this extraordinarily 
complicated case the times are everything. My original 
theory was right. There were two persons in the room 


340 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


the night of the murder — three, really, but Peggy doesn’t 
affect the reconstruction one way or the other. The mur- 
derer, who carried an umbrella to shield himself from 
the rain, entered the room about twenty past eleven. 
He murdered Mr. Glenthorpe, took the money, and 
escaped the same way he entered — by the window. Ben- 
son entered by the door at half-past eleven, certainly not 
later, and after standing at the bedside for two or three 
minutes, rushed downstairs, as he related, leaving his 
candle burning at the bedside. During his absence down- 
stairs his daughter entered the room. Benson returned 
for the candle and found it gone. Had he returned a 
minute or two earlier he would have seen his daughter 
carrying, it away, because in her story to me she said 
she thought she heard somebody creeping up the stairs 
as she left the room. I thought at the time that she 
imagined this, but now I have very little doubt that it 
was her father she heard, going upstairs again to get 
the candle. Finally, Benson, after planning it with 
Charles, removed the body to the pit some time after 
midnight.” 

“This is mere guess-work. Let us stick to facts. On 
Benson’s own confession he entered the room nefari- 
ously and removed the dead man’s body.” 

“Yes, but it was a dead body when he got there — just 
dead. Mr. Glenthorpe was alive and well not ten minutes 
before.” 

“Oh, come, Mr. Colwyn, this is going too far,” Gallo- 
way expostulated. “Again, I say, let us have no guess- 
work.” 

“This is not guess-work. There can be no doubt that 
the murderer left the room by the window just before 
Benson entered it by the door.” 

“How do you know that?” asked Galloway. 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


34i 

“Because he was watching Benson from the window 

Galloway looked startled. 

“You go too deep for me/’ he said. “Was it Pen- 
reath who got out of the window ?” 

“No, Penreath, like Benson, was the victim of a deep 
and subtle villain.” 

“Then who was it ?” 

Before Colwyn could reply a shriek rang out — a single 
hoarse and horrible cry, which went reverberating and 
echoing over the marshes, rising to a piercing intensity 
at its highest note, and then ceasing suddenly. In the 
hush that ensued the chief constable looked nervously at 
Colwyn. 

“It came from the rise,” he said in a voice barely 
raised above a whisper. “Do you think ” 

Colwyn read the unspoken thought in his mind. 

“I'll go and see what it was,” he said briefly. 

He opened the door and went out. In the passage he 
encountered Ann shaking and trembling, with a face 
blanched with terror. 

“It came from the pit, sir — the Shrieking Pit,” she 
whispered. “It’s the White Lady. Don’t leave me, I’m 
like to drop. God a’ mercy, what’s that?” she cried, 
finding her voice in a fresh access of terror as a heavy 
knock smote the door. “For God’s sake, don’t ’ee go, 
sir, don’t ’ee go, as you value your life. It’s the White 
Lady at the door, come to take her toll again from this 
unhappy house. You be ipad to face her, sir — it’s cer- 
tain death.” 

But Colwyn loosened himself quickly from her de- 
taining grasp, and strode to the door. As he passed the 
bar he caught a glimpse of a ring of cowering frightened 
faces within, huddled together like sheep, and staring 


342 THE SHRIEKING PIT 

with saucer eyes. The mist spanned the doorway like 
a sheet. 

“Who’s there?” he cried. 

“It’s me, sir.” Constable Queensmead stepped out of 
the mist into the passage, looking white and shaken. 
“Something’s happened up at the pit. While I was 
watching from the corner of the wood I saw somebody 
appear out of the mist and come creeping up the rise 
towards the pit. I waited till he got to the brink, and 
when he made to climb down, I knew he was the man 
you were after, so I went over to the pit. He had dis- 
appeared inside, but I could hear the creepers rustling 
as he went down. After a bit, I heard him coming up 
again, tugging and straining at the creepers, and gasping 
for breath. When he was fairly out, I turned my torch 
on him and told him to stand still. It is difficult to say 
exactly how it happened, sir, but when he saw he was 
trapped he made a kind of spring backwards, slipped on 
the wet clay, lost his balance, and fell back into the pit. I 
sprang forward and tried to save him, but it was too late. 
He caught at the creepers as he fell, hung for a second, 
then fell back with a loud cry.” 

“Who was it, Queensmead?” 

“Charles, the waiter, sir.” 

“We must get him out at once,” said Colwyn. “We 
shall need a rope and some men. Can you get some 
ropes, Queensmead ? There’s some men in the bar — we’ll 
get them to help. 

“I don’t think they’re likely to come, sir. They’re all 
too frightened of the Shrieking Pit, and the ghost.” 

“I’ll go and talk to them. Meanwhile, you go and get 
ropes.” 

Colwyn returned to the bar parlour and, after explain- 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


343 

ing to Mr. Cromering and Galloway what had happened, 
went into the bar. 

“Men,” said Colwyn, “Charles has fallen into the pit 
on the rise, and I need the help of some of you to get 
him out. Queensmead has gone for ropes. Who will 
come with me?” 

There was no response. The villagers looked at each 
other in silence, and moved uneasily. Then a man in 
jersey and seaboots spoke: 

“None of us dare go up to th’ pit, ma’aster.” 

“Why not?” 

“Life be sweet, ma’aster. It be a suddint and bloody 
end to meet th’ White Lady of th’ pit. Luke what’s 
happened to Charles, who went out of this bar not ten 
minutes agone ! Who knows who she may take next ?” 

“Very well, then stay where you are. You are a lot 
of cowards,” said Colwyn, turning away. 

The faces of the men showed that the epithet rankled, 
as Colwyn intended that it should. There was a brief 
pause, and then another fisherman stepped forward and 
said : 

“I’m a Norfolk man, and nobbut agoin’ to say I’m 
afeered. I’ll go wi’ yow, ma’aster.” 

“If yower game, Tom, I’ll go too,” said another. 

By the time Queensmead returned with the ropes there 
was no lack of willing helpers, and the party immediately 
set forth. When they arrived at the pit Colwyn said 
that it would be best for two men to descend by separate 
ropes, so as to be able to carry Charles to the surface 
in a blanket if he were injured, and not killed. Colwyn 
had brought a blanket from the inn for the purpose. 

“I’ll go down, for one,” said the seaman who had acted 
as spokesman in the bar. “I’m used to tying knots and 


344 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


slinging a hammock, so maybe I can make it a bit easier 
for the poor chap if he’s not killed outright. ,, 

“And I’ll go with you,” said Colwyn. 

Mr. Cromering drew the detective aside. 

“My good friend,” he said, “do you think it is wise 
for you to descend ? This man Charles, if he is still alive, 
may be actuated by feelings of revenge towards you, 
and seek to do you an injury.” 

“I am not afraid of that,” returned Colwyn. “I laid 
the trap for him, and it is my duty to go down and bring 
him up.” 

Colwyn left the chief constable and returned to the 
pit. The next moment he and the seaman commenced 
the descent. They carried electric torches, and took with 
them a blanket and a third rope. They were carefully 
lowered until the torches they carried twinkled more 
faintly, and finally vanished in the gloom. A little while 
afterwards the strain on the ropes slackened. The res- 
cuers had reached the bottom of the pit. A period of 
waiting ensued for those on top, until a jerk of the ropes 
indicated the signal for drawing up again. The men on 
the surface pulled steadily. Soon the torches were once 
more visible down the pit, and then the lanterns on the 
surface revealed Colwyn and the fisherman, supporting 
between them a limp bundle wrapped in the blanket, and 
tied to the third rope. As they reached the air they were 
helped out, and the burden they carried was laid on the 
ground near the mouth of the pit. The blanket fell 
away, exposing the face of Charles, waxen and still in 
the rays of the light which fell upon it. 

“Dead?” whispered Mr. Cromering. 

“Dying,” returned Colwyn. “His back is broken.” 

The dying man unclosed his eyelids, and his dark eyes, 
keen and brilliant as ever, roved restlessly over the group 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


345 


whty were standing around him. They rested on Colwyn, 
and he lifted a feeble hand and beckoned to him. The 
detective knelt beside him, and rested his head on his arm. 
The white lips formed one word : 

“Closer.” 

Colwyn bent his head nearer, and those standing by 
could see the dying man whispering into the detective’s 
ear. He spoke with an effort for some minutes, and hur- 
riedly, like one who knew that his time was short. Then 
he stopped suddenly, and his head fell back grotesquely, 
like a broken doll’s. Colwyn felt his heart, and rose to 
his feet. 

“He is dead,” he said. 


CHAPTER XXIX 


“There are several things that I do not understand,” 
said Superintendent Galloway to Colwyn a little later. 
“How were you able to decide so quickly that Benson 
had told the truth when he declared that he had not com- 
mitted the murder, after he had made the damning ad- 
mission that he had removed the body?” 

“Partly because it was extremely unlikely that Benson 
could have invented a story which fitted so nicely with 
the facts. The slightest mistake in his times would have 
proved him to be a liar. But I had more than that to 
go upon. I said this afternoon that my reconstruction 
was not wholly satisfactory, because there were several 
loose ends in it. At that time I believed he was the 
murderer, and I was anxious to frighten the truth out 
of him in order to see where my reconstruction was at 
fault. His story proved that my original conception of 
the crime was the correct one, and my mistake was in 
departing from it, and ignoring some of my original 
clues in order to square the new facts with a fresh 
theory. I should never have lost sight of my first con- 
viction that there were two persons in Mr. Glenthorpe’s 
room the night he was murdered. 

“When Benson told his story I asked myself, Could 
Charles’ conduct be dictated by the desire to have a hold 
over Benson — with a view to blackmail later on ? But he 
was not likely to risk his own neck by becoming an 
accomplice in the concealment of the murdered man’s 
body! Charles, if he were innocent himself, must have 
thought that Benson was the murderer. It was impos- 
346 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


347 


sible that he could have come to any other conclusion. 
He discovers a man washing blood off his hands at mid- 
night, and this man admits to him that he has just come 
from a room which he had no right to enter, and found 
a dead man there. Why had Charles believed — or pre- 
tended to believe — Benson’s story? 

“It came to me suddenly, with the recollection of the 
line under the murdered man’s window — one of the clues 
which I had discarded — and the whole of this baffling 
sinister mystery became clear in my mind. The murder 
was committed by Charles, who got out of the window by 
which he had entered just before Benson came into the 
room. Charles saw a light in the room he had left, and 
returned to the window to investigate. Crouching out- 
side the window, he saw Benson in the room, examining 
the body, and it came into his mind as he watched that 
his employer had conceived the same idea as himself — - 
had seized on the presence of a stranger staying at the 
inn in order to rob Mr. Glenthorpe, hoping that the crime 
would be attributed to the man who slept in the next 
room. Charles was quick to see how Benson’s presence 
in the room might be turned to his own advantage. 
Charles had taken precautions, in committing the mur- 
der, to leave clues in the room which should direct sus- 
picion to Penreath, but the innkeeper’s visit to the room 
suggested to him an even better plan for securing his 
own safety. When Benson left the room Charles got 
through the window again, and followed him downstairs. 

“Charles’ story, told to me when he was dying, filled 
in the gaps which I have omitted. He said that he 
watched the whole of Benson’s movements from the win- 
dow. He saw him searching for the money, saw him 
feel the body, and saw the blood on his hands. When 
Benson turned to leave the room he forgot the candle, 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


348 

and it was then that the idea of following him leapt into 
Charles’ mind. He divined that Benson would go down- 
stairs and wash the blood off his hands. Charles’ idea 
was to go after him and surprise him in the act. He 
followed him swiftly, and was never more than a few 
feet behind. While Benson was striking a match and 
lighting the kitchen candle Charles slipped into his own 
room, lit his own candle, and then emerged from his door 
as though he had been disturbed in his sleep. The rest 
of his plan was easily carried out through the fears of 
Benson, who agreed, in his own interests, to conceal the 
body of the man whom the other had murdered. 

“The clue by which Penreath was virtually convicted — 
the track of bootmarks to the pit — was an accidental 
one so far as Charles was concerned. It is strange to 
think that Chance, which removed the clues Charles 
deliberately placed in the room, should have achieved 
Charles’ aim by directing suspicion to Penreath in a 
different, yet more convincing manner. 

“The murderer’s revelation clears up those points 
which I was unable to settle this afternoon. He entered 
Mr. Glenthorpe’s room during the heaviest part of the 
storm. He carried a box, under his arm, because he was 
too short to get into the window without something to 
stand on, he shielded himself from the rain with an um- 
brella, which got caught on the nail by the window, 
and he lit a tallow candle which he had brought from the 
bar. 

“Another clue, which I originally discovered and laid 
aside, is also explained. The wound in Mr. Glenthorpe’s 
body struck me as an unusual one. You heard Sir 
Henry Durwood say, in answer to my questions, that the 
blow was a slanting one, struck from the left side, 
entering almost parallel with the ribs, yet piercing the 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


349 


heart on the right side. The manner in which Mr. Glen- 
thorpe’s arms were thrown out, his legs drawn up, proved 
that he was lying on his back when murdered. For 
that reason, the direction of the blow suggested Charles 
as the murderer.” 

“I am afraid I do not follow you there/’ said Mr. 
Cromering. 

“Charles had a malformed right hand; his left hand 
was his only serviceable one. The blow that killed Mr. 
Glenthorpe struck me at the time as a left-handed blow. 
The natural direction of a right-handed blow, with the 
body in such a position, would be from right to left — not 
from left to right. But, after considering this point 
carefully, I came to the conclusion that the blow might 
have been struck by a right-handed man. I was wrong.” 

“I do not think you have much cause to blame your- 
self,” said the chief constable. “You were right in your 
original conception of the crime, and right in your later 
reconstruction in every particular except ” 

“Except that I picked the wrong man,” said Colwyn, 
with a slightly bitter laugh. “My consolation is that Ben- 
son’s confession brought the truth to light, as I expected 
it would.” 

“It took you to see the truth,” said Galloway. “I 
should never have picked it. I suppose there has never 
been a case like it.” 

“There is nothing new — not even in the annals of 
crime,” returned Colwyn. “But this was certainly a 
baffling and unusual case. The murderer was such a 
deep and subtle scoundrel that I feel a respect for his 
intelligence, perverted though it was. His master stroke 
was the disposal of the body. That shielded him from 
suspicion as completely as an alibi. I put aside my first 
suspicion of him largely because I realised that it was 


350 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


impossible for a man with a deformed arm to carry away 
the body. Such a sardonic situation as a murderer per- 
suading another man that he was likely to be suspected 
of the murder unless he removed the body was one that 
never occurred to me. That, at all events, is something 
new in my experience.” 

"It is a wonder that Charles, with his deformed arm, 
was able to go down the pit and conceal the money,” said 
the chief constable. 

“He did not go down very far. It is not a difficult 
matter to climb down the creepers inside with the sup- 
port of one hand, and he was able to use the other suffi- 
ciently to thrust the small peg into the soft earth. He 
first hid the money in the breakwater wall, being too 
careful and clever to hide it in the pit until after the 
inquest. When he had concealed it in the pit he revived 
the story of the White Lady of the Shrieking Pit so as 
to keep the credulous villagers away from the spot. He 
need not have taken that precaution, because the hiding 
place was an excellent one, and it was only by chance 
that I discovered the money when I descended the pit. 
But he left nothing to chance. The use of the umbrella 
on the night of the murder proves that murderers do not 
usually carry umbrellas, but he did, because he feared that 
if his clothes got wet they might be seen in his room the 
following day, and direct suspicion to him. He chose 
to commit the crime when the storm was at its height 
because he thought he was safest from the likelihood of 
discovery then. 

“The callous scoundrel told me with his last breath 
that he was waiting until Penreath was safely hanged 
before disappearing with the money. When he opened 
the door to us to-night, he knew that he was at the end 
of his tether, and he decided to try to bolt. He realised 


THE SHRIEKING PIT 


35i 


that Benson would tell the truth when he was questioned 
and, although the innkeeper’s story did not implicate 
him directly, he did our common intelligence the justice 
to believe that, through his dupe’s confession, we should 
arrive at the truth.” 






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